


new perspective

by starscry



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Feel-good, Fluff, M/M, Musicians, Singing, Social Media, guitar tech jesse, normal human genji who wears tight pants and smokes a lot of weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gabriel calls him up and says that Ana’s daughter is currently working the soundboard for a band that just lost their guitar tech and is in desperate need of a new one, Jesse jumps at the opportunity. He’s sick of bartending and working house for the shithole club he’s been slaving away at for the past few months in Albuquerque, <i>desperate</i> for a change of pace. </p><p>Gabe doesn’t give him too many details, just the band’s name -- North Wind Rising, which Jesse is mildly familiar with from a hit or two on the radio recently -- and the number of Ana’s daughter. Jesse will get a bunk on the roadie tour bus, a few meals provided when the occasion calls for it, and decent pay. It’s a <i>great</i> fucking opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. welcome aboard

Jesse hates Texas. 

He hates how Texas is what immediately comes to anyone’s mind when they think of the southwest. He hates it when people assume he’s from Texas because of his accent. He hates how everything in Texas is goddamned _Texas-shaped_ \-- who the hell needs Texas-shaped tables? Pools? Pizzas? Hell, there are even Texas-shaped _waffles_. Who in their right mind would desecrate _waffles_ by making them shaped like that godforsaken state? Nothing in New Mexico is New Mexico-shaped; of course, some things inadvertently are, considering his home state is basically a square -- but that’s just semantics.

Fuckin’ Texas.

He’s known Gabriel forever -- the man used to be in a legendary three-piece band with his Jack and Ana, two of his best friends. They’re all moderately old, now, out of the band scene and keeping up with their music by giving lessons to kids, of which Jesse was one, _years_ ago, now; despite the fact that they’re partners, Jack and Gabe both have their own businesses as guitar teachers. Keeping alive their old competitive streak -- whatever spices things up in bed, Jesse supposes. He’s not one to judge.

When Gabriel calls him up and says that Ana’s daughter is currently working the soundboard for a band that just lost their guitar tech and is in desperate need of a new one, Jesse jumps at the opportunity. He’s sick of bartending and working house for the shithole club he’s been slaving away at for the past few months in Albuquerque, _desperate_ for a change of pace. Gabe doesn’t give him too many details, just the band’s name -- North Wind Rising, which Jesse is mildly familiar with from a hit or two on the radio recently -- and the number of Ana’s daughter. Jesse will get a bunk on the roadie tour bus, a few meals provided when the occasion calls for it, and decent pay. It’s a _great_ fucking opportunity.

Jesse shoves all of his belongings into a duffel bag, slings his guitar over his back, and leaves a hastily-scribbled note for the friend whose couch he’d been crashing on for the past few days that he doesn’t need to worry about having a freeloader in his house anymore. He makes his way to a road running out of Albuquerque and manages to catch a ride with an older lady that’s heading east toward Texas. They drive in silence, Jesse listening to her harlequin romance novels over audiobook for several hours and marvelling at the incredible amount of ways a single author can use to describe a dick.

Slowly, he hitches his way across the vast, hot hellscape that is Texas, lamenting the fact that he even has to step foot in this godforsaken state in the first place. It takes him nearly two days of catching rides with an odd assortment of strangers to finally make it to Corpus Christi, the band’s next stop on the tour and where he’s slated to join up with them and meet Ana’s daughter. Two excruciating days. 

Fuckin’ _Texas._

\- - -

**Genji** @bettershimada   
who here is ready to ROCK in Texas?!  
**2,113** RETWEETS **8.3K** LIKES  
  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@bettershimada I CANT WAIT TO SEE YOU GUYS LIVE TOMORROW

**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
i’m gonna die i can’t believe im finally seeing north wind rising live 

\- - -

Ana’s daughter has grown quite a bit since Jesse last saw her. She’s the spitting image of her mother in days gone by, with cropped black hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, the same tattoo framing one of her eyes, and enough muscles on her arms that Jesse would _not_ want to ever fuck with her for fear of being put in a strong headlock and choked out. She welcomes him with open arms, though, happy to see him after so many years apart.

“Welcome to the band,” Fareeha says, a grin dancing upon her lips as she leads him around the amphitheater.

“So, I hear y’all’re down a guitar tech?” Jesse asks, brow quirked.

Fareeha snorts and rolls her eyes. “Understatement of the century,” she replies. “Our old guy decided to quit on us out of the blue. No two weeks, not even a ‘hey, I kind of need to leave _right now_.’ Just packed up his stuff and booked it -- I woke up to an empty bunk on the bus, right below mine.”

“Is it really that hard t’find one on short notice, though?”

“Nobody we know in town wants the job. We’re two shows into a four-month amphitheater tour -- it’s some pretty deep shit to dive headfirst into on such short notice. Plus,” she adds, voice dropping low and a hand cupping around her mouth, “our old guitar tech was also a glorified babysitter.”

Jesse’s forehead furrows, mildly amused and a bit concerned at the statement. “What, is the band really that bad? Are they a bunch’a prima donnas, or something?”

“I’d go with _or something_ ,” Fareeha replies. “They’re great people. One of the most genuinely nice bands I’ve ever run sound for. But _my god_ , the lead singer, Genji -- he’s something else. Usually his brother is around to keep him in check, but when he _isn’t_..”

“Brother?” 

The woman nods. “Mmhm. Bassist. You’ll know him when you see him -- he’s got eyes like a fucking graveyard and a body like a modern Adonis. If I weren’t strictly into tits, I’d go after that one.” She pats her own boobs, nodding solemnly. “I’m pretty sure his are bigger than mine, too.”

“Sounds.. interestin’,” Jesse mutters. At least, it seems, this job won’t be as painfully boring as his last; odd personalities, a long tour, and an eccentric front man. All things he can deal with, he supposes.

“ _And_ ,” Fareeha adds, a sly grin creeping upon her lips, “the old tech dealt with The Cat. Which means _that_ torch has now been passed to _you_.”

From the way she says _The Cat_ , Jesse isn’t sure he even _wants_ to know about it. Curiosity, however, has always been a fatal flaw of his -- he can’t help asking, “What’s ‘The Cat’?”

“Let me show you.” She pulls out her phone (with an incredibly cracked screen, Jesse notices) and opens up Twitter, thumb quickly scrolling down her feed and finally stopping and tapping on a favorited tweet.

  
  
**Genji** @bettershimada   
looks like miso got her eye back!!!  https://imgur.com/a/TlFAY  
**3,912** RETWEETS **10.2K** LIKES  
  


“ _This_ ,” she says, “is The Cat.”

“Aw,” Jesse coos, smiling at the little black cat in the picture with a googly eye placed over one of its own. “Looks real cute.”

“Wait until you meet it. I swear, that thing was spewed out by Hell and put upon this earth to torment everyone who works with this band. She’ll claw your damn eyeballs out.” Fareeha sniffs, rubbing her her forearm and shaking her head ruefully. “I had to take care of her for a day, once. Almost flayed me alive.”

“Sounds like you’re bein’ a _tad_ dramatic,” he deadpans.

She taps the picture twice, zooming in close on the cat’s face. “This is the face of a demon. You’ve been warned.” Fareeha pockets her phone, and they continue walking as she talks. “She’s Genji’s cat, and she _only_ loves him. Sadly, when he’s off doing whatever the fuck band-stuff he’s got to do -- interviews and shit, who knows -- _you’re_ the one that gets to deal with her.”

“I think I’ll manage.” He glances around the amphitheater as they walk, surprised by how _huge_ it is. With no seating and only a massive, general admission pit, he can understand why there are dedicated fans already camped out by the front gates, waiting for hours in hopes of getting a spot close to the stage.

Fareeha walks him around and introduces him to some of the other roadies who are setting things up for the night’s show. She proudly shows off her soundboard, and Jesse cannot comprehend how one single person is capable of managing all of those buttons and ensuring that all of the music the band plays onstage is clear and loud. He has nothing but respect for her.

Finally, she takes him around back to a large, empty parking lot where a train of tour buses are parked. “So,” Fareeha says with a smile, holding open the door on one of the larger black buses, “this is your new home for the next four months.” Inside is, surprisingly, much nicer than he’d expected. Tiled floors, a kitchenette, and a small living space with a television, a couch and some chairs, and a table. The rest of the bus is populated by bunks stacked on top of each other, each denoted by a name. 

“You get the bottom one, right above the ground,” she says.

“Aw. Ain’t there any.. middle ones? Maybe a top one?” he groans.

“Sorry, cowboy. Mei-Ling took the old tech’s bunk as soon as he left, so you’re stuck with the shitty bunk.” Fareeha pats him softly on the shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, at least there’s no chance of you falling out of your bunk at night since you’re so close to the floor.”

“Yeah,” Jesse huffs, eyeing the bunk with disdain. Tall people shouldn’t be forced to live like this, he thinks. “S’pose so.”

\- - -

**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
finally seeing @northwindrising tonight!! <3

 **lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
looks like nwr got a new guitar soundcheck guy and hes smokin.. look at that beard https://t.co/2auDj68t

 **genji stan // 9 DAYS** @gnjishimada  
@traceroxtons Omg. he looks like a sexy lumberjack dad. the hat and belt buckle though.. lmfao

**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@gnjishimada I KNOW hahaha he’s so texas

**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
IT’S TIME

 **lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
https://t.co/5anIle23 LOOK AT LENA PLAYING HER GUITAR NEXT TO AMELIE

 **lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
holy fuck genji’s backflip during burnout

 **genji stan // 9 DAYS** @gnjishimada  
@traceroxtons i can’t wait to see him backflip live i’m gonna nut

**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@gnjishimada THEY WERE SO GOOD and omg. genji is amazing he did so many backflips this show

**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@gnjishimada also lena went up to amelie’s drums and started tapping on them during “all the girls”

**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@TRACER you were so amazing live!! <3

  
  
**Genji** @bettershimada   
CORPUS CHRISTI!!!! You guys were fuckin great!! thanks for an awesome crowd and an awesome show!!  
**1,912** RETWEETS **7.5K** LIKES

\- - -

Jesse’s not sure _what_ he’d been expecting from the band, but it sure as hell wasn’t _that_.

Their music is an odd mixture, rock and pop punk blended together seamlessly to create a unique sound heavy on guitar riffs and hard drumming, a steady bassline giving it depth. The lead singer -- Genji, he remembers Fareeha saying -- has a vocal range that is goddamn out of this _world_. From extreme highs to deep-end lows, he can hit nearly any note. Watching him on stage is wild fun; he’s energetic, untamed, and incredibly flexible, doing backflips off the drummer’s platform, interacting with all of the other band members, and going down into the crowd during several songs. Jesse wonders how he can _move_ so much with such tight leather pants on.

Lena, the guitarist, is equally fun to watch. In the brief time he met her before the show as he was tuning the guitars for soundcheck, Jesse was charmed by the girl’s bright personality. She’s short and bubbly, nearly matching Genji in energy, and her fingers fly across the strings of her instrument at an insane speed. She plays with passion, pouring her heart out into the music -- Jesse fucking _loves_ listening to her solos. 

He can see some sort of connection that brews between her and the drummer, Amélie. The guitarist seems to enjoy playing near her and teasingly banging on the drum kit in her own time, and the drummer has no qualms about it. Jesse sees Lena press a kiss to the other woman’s cheek during one of the songs, and the action is met with a flushed face and a soft smile. The drummer is incredibly focused, never missing a beat. 

Then, there’s the bassist, Hanzo. Jesse can see what Fareeha meant when she described him -- he has a sort of brooding charm, face impassive as he focuses on playing his music and providing backup vocals. With hair tied up in a messy ponytail, pants hugging his ass, a sleeveless black muscle tank that’s cut so far down the sides Jesse isn’t sure it can even be considered a _shirt_ any more flapping open wide and showing off his impressively-muscled chest, and an intricate tattoo that winds its way down one of his arms, the man is a goddamn sight for anyone’s eyes -- _especially_ his. 

Jesse can see why this group has such a large base of fans, between their music, Lena and Amélie, Genji’s enthusiasm and perpetual shirtlessness on stage, and Hanzo’s modern rock god qualities. With a band like this, he thinks, a four month tour might actually be fun.

Once the show is over and the other roadies begin packing everything up into the bus, Jesse is surprised by an arm slung around his neck and a friendly grin flashed at him. Genji is dripping sweat and has smudged black liner at the corner of one eye, but he seems as happy and tireless as he was on-stage.

“So I hear you’re the new guitar tech?” he asks, steering Jesse in the direction of the tour buses.

“Mmhm,” Jesse hums, tipping his hat. “That’s me. Jesse McCree -- nice t’meet’cha.”

“Ha!” Genji laughs, squeezing his neck in a tight hug. “You look like a cowboy, and you sound like one too. This is fucking gold.”

“Nothin’ wrong with a bein’ a bit country,” he replies.

“No, no, of course not!” the other man chirps. “I love it! Love the hat, and the belt buckle -- that’s _sick_ , man. Glad to have you with us.”

“Glad to be here.”

Genji dips his head, grinning. “I already told Mei-Ling to take care of your job, just for tonight. I want you to meet the others!”

Jesse’s mildly surprised; he’s teched for a few other, smaller bands, and worked with arenas doing local jobs around New Mexico. Most bands aren’t incredibly close with their roadies. Hell, he’s never heard of a band inviting a brand new one into their bus, but that’s where Genji leads him.

The band’s bus isn’t much different from the one Fareeha showed him earlier -- a bit nicer, sure, and littered with empty beer bottles and a few stray practice instruments. The bunks are a bit roomier with only four people to house. Jesse’s pretty sure he sees _at least_ two bongs, both of them with duct tape labels reading ‘GENJI’ in thick, black Sharpie. He sees a little, black cat with a single eye darting back and forth across the floor and resists the urge to laugh. _There’s that cat Fareeha was talkin’ ‘bout_ , he thinks. There’s a television hung on the wall with Super Smash Brothers going, Amélie and Hanzo sitting side-by-side on the couch with controllers in their hands and intense looks of concentration on their faces as Sheik and Kirby duke it out onscreen. 

“Post-show cooldown,” Genji whispers to him, laughing. “This is how they relax.”

Jesse nods idly, gaze focused on Hanzo; the bassist’s feet are up on the table in front of him, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose, bottom lip sucked between his teeth as he focuses on the game and fingersmashes buttons wildly. The game’s timer counts down quickly -- five, four, three, two -- and he throws his hands up in frustration, dropping the controller on the table before him and grabbing a beer bottle by the neck.

“Why do I even try?” Hanzo groans, shaking his head and taking a long sip. Amélie grins triumphantly. Jesse sees Lena sidle up to her, wrapping her arms around the other woman’s neck and planting a kiss on her cheek.

“That’s my girl!” she chirps, a brilliant grin on her face.

Genji clears his throat, waving at his bandmates and pointing to Jesse. “If you are all finished,” he says, “this is our new guitar tech. I know Lena has already met him.” He nudges Jesse’s shoulder, nodding at the band.

Jesse tips his hat and flashes them a smile. “Name’s Jesse McCree,” he says.

Hanzo stares at him, deadpan. “Did we hire a cowboy or a guitar technician?” he asks, sipping his beer nonchalantly.

“Hm,” Amélie says, lips pursed and a finger tapping her chin. “It looks like.. cowboy.”

“Well. Perhaps if we ever have any wild horses run through our show, his skills will be needed,” Hanzo quips.

“Y’never know,” Jesse replies. “These hands ain’t just made for tunin’ guitars.”

“Ooh, what else can they do?” Genji asks, following his words with an eyebrow waggle. Lena bursts out laughing at the innuendo, and Jesse can’t help rolling his eyes, a fond smile slipping onto his face; he likes this band. _A lot._

Genji grabs him a beer from the fridge and makes the others squeeze over on the couch so Jesse can fit on it, squashed up against Hanzo.

“Do you play?” the bassist asks, curious eyes fixed on him. He nods at the television, where the Smash characters idle on the screen.

“Um.” Jesse doesn’t want to make a bad impression, but also has not touched a video game in _years_. Hell, he’s pretty sure the last game he played was one of the Mario Party titles, and he’d gotten his ass kicked by his sisters. He shrugs and mutters, “a bit.”

“Good.” Hanzo shoves a controller in his hands and within seconds they’re both choosing characters. Jesse struggles to remember how to work everything -- the most he knows is analog stick and the button that selects things. He waggles the joystick and scrolls over a row of characters, unsure of who to choose.

“Pick Greninja,” Genji whispers into his ear, hand cupped around his mouth. 

“Do not give him tips,” Hanzo barks at his brother. Genji grins and shrinks away, leaning back on the couch with arms crossed over his chest as he watches amusedly. Suddenly, Jesse is aware of the pairs of eyes focused on him -- Lena watches with keen enthusiasm, while Amélie observes coolly, with the wizened eye of an age-old Smash master.

Eventually, Jesse settles on Pikachu, recognizing the cute, little character from the old Pokemon games he used to play. Small, but mighty, he figures. Hanzo picks Sheik and quickly starts the match, fierceness in his gaze. _Goddamn_ , Jesse thinks, _he takes this game seriously._ He tries to mimic the other man’s intensity, readying himself to _win_ \-- and, Jesse proceeds to get his ass handed to him by Hanzo. Again. And again. And _again_. Finally fed up with being utterly unable to beat the other man, he sets the controller on the table and slumps back, tipping his hat down moodily.

“Are you tired of this rodeo, cowboy?” Hanzo asks amusedly. His lips are pressed in a thin, triumphant smirk; Jesse huffs in response and takes a sip of his now-lukewarm beer. He notices that the other three bandmembers are staring at him, shit-eating grins on their faces.

“Y’all knew that would happen, didn’t’cha?” he mutters.

“More or less,” Lena giggles.

“He is easy to beat,” Amélie replies airily. “If you wish to take on a _true_ player, I will happily go against you.”

“ _No-o-o_ thank you,” Jesse says, shaking his head vigorously. “I’ve had enough embarrassment for one night, I think.”

“You sure?” Genji asks. “I thought your type were all about getting back on the horse.”

Jesse resists the urge to groan; goddamn _cowboy puns_ , he thinks.

\- - -

**lena oxton** @TRACER   
night out in nashville with the lovelies :-) https://t.co/4nvEn42a @bettershimada @Widowmaker @ShimadaH  
**5,812** RETWEETS **14.3K** LIKES

**Genji** @bettershimada   
two weeks into tour, every show sold out so far. You guys fucking ROCK!!  
**2,411** RETWEETS **5.2K** LIKES

\- - -

**Kerrang! Magazine** @KerrangMagazine   
Genji Shimada, frontman of @northwindrising talks tour, the band, and more. kerrang.com/442...  
**1,311** RETWEETS **4.1K** LIKES

  
**GENJI SHIMADA TALKS TOUR, THE BAND, AND NORTH WIND RISING’S #1 ALBUM**   
_By Liang on August 23, 2017_

**KERRANG** : Touring the country after your album has just hit #1 nationwide must be a pretty big deal. How does it feel?

**SHIMADA** : [laughs] It feels absolutely crazy, to be honest. Everyone is so happy about it, and the band’s energy has been _insane_ lately. It feels like we’re riding a crazy high right now, you know? I’m just so amazed that people are enjoying the music we make - it’s a dream come true for any artist.

**KERRANG** : And your first real tour is an arena tour, too! That must feel pretty spectacular.

**SHIMADA** : It does, it really does. Just months ago, before we released this album, we were playing in small venues to, like, crowds of two hundred-something people, a good half of which were probably there for the opening band, honestly. [laughs] And now, look at us! It’s a bit overwhelming sometimes, looking out into such a huge crowd. But it’s good. It’s really spectacular, like you said.

**KERRANG** : So, where did the inspiration for this album come from? Some of the lyrics are incredibly deep - “Brother, Mine,” especially. Did the band collectively write these songs, or was it more a single person?

**SHIMADA** : The album is a labor of everyone’s love, honestly. There were songs we all collaborated on lyrically, like “On Your Way.” “Brother, Mine” was actually a song I wrote the lyrics for, and Hanzo wrote the music for it; that song is one of the more deep and personal ones on the album, and it’s about a very difficult point in both mine and my brother’s life several years ago. [pauses] Amélie and Lena co-wrote several of the songs on the album, as well - “All The Girls” is one we have on our live setlist. So, yeah - to answer your question, I’d say it’s a bit of both.

**KERRANG** : How is the rest of the band doing on tour so far?

**SHIMADA** : Pretty well, actually! It was a weird jump from touring out of a van to having these big, awesome buses that we get to live in, but they’ve mostly settled. It’s rough, driving for hours every day, getting ready for shows, and playing until late at night - but it’s really, really fun. Everyone keeps themselves occupied. We play a _lot_ of video games, too. [laughs] And there are some great people in our crew that hang out with us. It’s great.

**KERRANG** : Only two weeks in - any weird fan encounters, yet?

**SHIMADA** : Oh, god. A few bras thrown onstage - mostly at my brother. He’s not the biggest fan of that. [laughs] But Lena likes to pick them all up after the show. No idea what she does with them. I did have one guy in the pit at our latest show hand me a joint he’d rolled, but that was less weird and more fucking _awesome_. There are also a _lot_ of fans who tweet “dad” at my brother, for whatever reason. It weirds him out.

**KERRANG** : [laughs] Sounds like you’ve had some.. interesting experiences so far. And one last question before we wrap things up - there have been rumors floating around about a possible collaboration between Lúcio and North Wind Rising on a new song. Can you say anything about this?

**SHIMADA** : I can say _one_ thing - it’s happening. He’s an amazing guy and when we approached him about a possible collaboration a while ago, he instantly hopped on board. Such a wonderful and genuine person. But, yes! Get ready for it!

\- - -

The tour moves along smoothly, if not slowly. Fareeha shows him the ropes and makes sure he’s familiar with the way the band likes to run things -- pre-show rituals, lucky objects like the old Tamagotchi that Lena affectionately named ‘Bastion’ and puts on her side of the stage every performance, and what to do between songs. Surprisingly, it’s not a very high-pressure environment; the bandmembers are very relaxed, and there’s not a lot to set up on the stage pre-show. They like to keep it simple. Jesse can do simple.

He spends a good amount of time with Lena, learning the ins and outs of each of her guitars, which songs require what specific guitar for the sound the band needs, and how to string and tune them to her liking. Her favorite, Jesse finds, is the bright, orange Tracer model. It’s a beautiful instrument -- easily two or five times more expensive than anything he would ever be able to afford, he thinks, jealousy spiking through him.

Hanzo is an entirely different experience. The bassist doesn’t seem to want anything to do with Jesse. He’s cordial enough, willing to sit and talk for hours about music -- something Jesse appreciates in a person -- but he won’t let the tech anywhere near his instruments. All of his bass guitars, Hanzo assures Jesse, are well-taken care of by _himself_. Curious about this, Jesse brings it up to Genji, who offers a half-hearted shrug and tells him that Hanzo has always been like this. Fiercely independent, unwilling to let anyone else touch his guitars, and convinced that only _he_ knows what is best for his music. Jesse doesn’t want to fuck up and piss off the already touchy-seeming bassist, so he simply smiles and nods and respects Hanzo’s wishes.

Genji seems to take a shine to him, inviting Jesse back to the band’s bus often before and after shows. The younger man grins and talks on and on about music, life -- generally _anything_. Jesse’s amazed by how much Genji can talk about and make genuinely interesting. It’s fun to lounge about with the singer, watching him smoke joints and pet his cat and listening to him ramble about things. Idly, Jesse wonders if the band will let him stay on as part of the team after the tour is up.

\- - -

The hot night air settles around him, stifling and nearly unbearable. Jesse feels like he’s trying to breathe through a wet rag. It’s somewhat worth it, given the view he has at the top of the venue -- Atlanta is a gorgeous at night, lit up like a twinkling galaxy filled with stars. Below him, the area around the amphitheater is verdant, trees and grass consuming the land, rich greens bringing everything to life and swaying in the hot night breeze. He gazes at the city in the distance, watching the bright headlights of cars trail to and from it like tiny, marching ants.

Jesse closes his eyes and strums his old, beat-up six-string; the guitar has been with him through some real _shit_ , an instrument he bought as a kid and never had the heart to let go of. Everywhere he goes, it comes with him, a promise of music that can be played whenever he needs it. He plucks at the strings and listens to the rich tune of each individual note, leisurely moving his fingers up and down the neck and playing an easy melody that soon devolves into an old Kenny Chesney song that he hums along with. Jesse tilts his head back and breathes the thick, wet air through his nose, quietly crooning the lyrics that accompany the tune.

When he finishes, arms gently sagging on the guitar, Jesse hears several loud claps. His head whips around and he sees Hanzo standing there, hands together as he nods approvingly.

“Very good,” the bassist says. Jesse feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck; his time singing and playing is something he likes to be _private_ , not a show for others. He’s a bit embarrassed.

Hanzo pads up and takes a seat next to him, glancing down at Jesse’s guitar. “May I see it?” he asks, brow quirked.

“Have at ‘er,” Jesse replies. He hands the guitar over to Hanzo and fishes a cigarette from his pocket, flicking his lighter open and cupping a flame to the end of it. The other man examines the guitar with a careful eye, turning it over in his hands and running fingers over scuffed wood, old stickers that bear the logos of country singers and eighties rock bands, and strings that are in desperate need of replacement. 

He tests it, plucking at a few of the strings. “For a man whose job is to take care of guitars, you do not treat your own very well,” Hanzo says.

Jesse shrugs and takes a drag of the cigarette. “Time was I did treat ‘er right,” he replies, smoke ghosting from his lips. “She’s old, though. Almost time for retirement. Nothin’ much I can do ‘bout that.”

“Well-loved,” the bassist murmurs. “Not old. This instrument has a long story behind it.”

“Gettin’ all poetic about guitars, huh?”

Hanzo eyes him carefully. “Everything about music is poetic. The instruments we use to create it are just as important as music itself,” he says. “Like the lyrics of songs, they tell their own stories.”

“Well, goddamn,” Jesse lets out a bark of laughter, grinning at the other man. “If that ain’t the most profound thing I’ve heard all day. Christ, y’sound like the fuckin’ Mother Theresa of guitars.”

The other man gives him a scathing glance, and Jesse puts his hands up defensively. “Sorry, sorry. You’re right, though. That guitar’s got a _long_ history.”

“How old is it?”

Jesse purses his lips and blows smoke from between then, tapping a finger idly on his chin. “Hm. ‘Bout twenty-odd years, I’d say. Saved up money I earned helpin’ out at the garage in town and bought ‘er at a pawn shop when I was ‘bout thirteen.”

“A long life for a guitar.”

“Uh-huh.” He watches Hanzo run a thumb down the strings, quietly playing an easy melody. “I gotta ask -- why don’t you let me help you out with your bass? I know my way ‘round just ‘bout every type’a guitar there is. Least I can do is help you string it.”

Nails drum against the wood of the guitar rhythmically as if Hanzo is deciding how best to answer the question. “My music is my own,” he murmurs after a long moment. “Everything about it. I cannot trust anyone else to care for my instruments.” He glances at Jesse, dipping his head apologetically. “It is not that I doubt your skills.”

Jesse flaps a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he replies, tone easy. _Wonder what asshole got on the wrong side’a him ‘n made him not trust anyone with his bass_ , he wonders, then dismisses the thought. He’s known some _weird_ musicians; if Hanzo doesn’t want him near his guitars, so be it. 

Comfortable silence stretches between them. They listen to the soft lull of crickets chirping and watch the distant city lights blink bright against the nighttime sky. Jesse glances at Hanzo -- the bassist is wearing his glasses, dark hair framing his face and draping over his shoulders. He’s still wearing the same godforsaken tank he always wears onstage, but there’s something different about him, Jesse thinks. Everything Hanzo does during shows is simply a performance for the fans; the gyrating, the outrageous tricks with his bass, even the outfit. Onstage, Hanzo is sexual because he has to be. Offstage, in moments like these, Jesse has come to find that the other man is quiet. Thoughtful. More about the music than the band’s image, though he does his brooding sex-panther routine onstage to maintain the latter. It’s interesting, Jesse thinks, to have such an inside position with the band like this and getting to see both sides of Hanzo.

The bassist meets his gaze and holds out a hand, a finger pointing and curling inward at the ciagrette Jesse holds. “Do you mind?” he asks, and the tech shakes his head, handing it over to the other man. Hanzo purses his lips around the cigarette’s end and breathes in, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment before forming an ‘o’ with his mouth and puffing a grey ring out, watching it lazily drift away from his face and dissipate into the night.

“That’s not good for your voice, y’know,” Jesse says.

Hanzo takes another drag and blows the smoke toward him. “I am aware,” he replies. “It helps me relax.” The bassist hands Jesse back his guitar and cards a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. Jesse can _see_ how tense he is; as much as he’d like to know what’s biting at the man, he’s not sure it’s his place to ask. 

Instead, he asks, “y’know Fleetwood Mac?”

Hanzo gives him a withering look, as if to say, _seriously?_ “Of course.”

“Landslide?”

A nod.

“Well, how ‘bout you back me up then, darlin’? Whenever I’m not feelin’ too hot, I sing it all out.”

“I suppose I can,” Hanzo says, considering his words. He stubs the cigarette out on the rooftop and clears his throat, glancing at Jesse and nodding his head once. _Go on._

He puts his fingers to the strings and plays the opening chords; Hanzo taps a finger in time with the beat on his thigh, and Jesse presses his lips in a thin smile at the action. Voice a deep, soft burr in his throat, Jesse sings the first verse of the song in his best, Stevie Nicks-esque fashion, “ _I took my love, and I took it down_.”

Hanzo’s voice joins in on the next line, a bit higher in tone as he matches Jesse’s _I climbed a mountain and I turned around_. Their voices flow together in a seamless harmony as Jesse’s fingers dance across the strings of his guitar, plucking the calm tune. He meets Hanzo’s eyes and the edges of the other man’s lips quirk up on a soft smile; _it’s workin’_ , Jesse thinks, watching the tension slowly seep from the other man’s body as he lets himself relax into the song and just feel the music. Even if this only lasts for a bit, Jesse’s glad to have helped relieve some of the tension.

Slowly, they work their way toward the end of the song, voices twined as they sing, _will the landslide bring you down?_ When Jesse glances up from his fingers on the neck of the guitar, Hanzo is looking at him with an easy half-smile upon his lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs, dipping his head. “That did help.”

“Well,” Jesse replies, “I’m glad I could be of service.”

“Your voice is wonderful. Why are you fixing guitars for a living, instead of singing?”

“Too scared t’be up in front’a people like that,” Jesse replies, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “This way, I still get t’be around the music I love, but I don’t got to feel like I’m makin’ a fool out’a myself doin’ it.”

“You would not make a fool out of yourself,” Hanzo assures him. “I am sure anyone would love to hear you sing.”

“That’s mighty fine’a you to say, but I’m not cut out for that sort of thing.”

He’s surprised at the disappointed look upon Hanzo’s face. “That is too bad,” the bassist murmurs. “Music should not be hidden from the world.”

_If only,_ Jesse thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to ugyaaa for [this gorgeous art of chapter 1 ovo)/](http://ugyaaa.tumblr.com/post/148994931727/i-was-super-inspired-by-the-first-chapter-of-this)
> 
> this fic is extremely self-indulgent because i love band aus and young, fuck-around genji. in this case, his stage-self is pretty much entirely inspired by brendon urie of panic! at the disco (who also wrote the song that the fic title came from). i'd also say that the band's sound is somewhere between fall out boy's 'save rock and roll' album and 80s rock like def leppard
> 
> landslide is, of course, by fleetwood mac. apologies if i accidentally used your twitter handle (unless you're kerrang in which case i absolutely used it on purpose)!
> 
> and if you'd like to find me other places: [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/starscryy)


	2. riptide

Jesse laments not listening to Fareeha’s warnings about The Cat.

 _It can’t be that bad_ , he’d thought. _Looked like a real cute kitty in the picture._ With his forearm deep in a nightmareish pit of black fur and sharp claws, he’s beginning to regret not heeding her words.

“Get ‘er off! Get ‘er off!” he yelps. Genji, sitting beside him on the couch, laughs and tugs his cat off Jesse. 

“Sorry,” the singer says, laughter still coloring his voice, “she’s a bit over-friendly.”

“I don’t think that was very _friendly_ ,” Jesse huffs. “More like _angry_.”

The cat curls up in Genji’s lap, tucking her paws neatly under her body. If cats could glare, Jesse swears this one would be giving him the _meanest_ look right about now with its single, yellow eye. Genji strokes a hand down her back, scritching just above her stump of a tail and eliciting a purr from the little animal.

“Where the hell’d you find that one, anyway? Couldn’t’ve bothered to get somethin’ a li’l bit sweeter?”

“Aw, don’t be mean. She’s sensitive,” Genji replies. “I found her in a dumpster, actually.”

“A dumpster,” Jesse deadpans. “You’re shittin’ me. You picked up a cat from a _dumpster_.”

“I was not about to leave her there. Poor thing -- she was all skin and bone. Of course I had to take her in.”

“Christ. Fuckin’ dumpster cat. No wonder she’s so mean.”

Genji covers the cat’s ears with his hands. “Shh! He didn’t mean that, Miso.”

Jesse rubs the bleeding scratches on his arm, staring at her. The cat stares back with equal vigor -- it’s a match he’s bound to lose. He leans back on the couch of the band’s bus, stretching out with a contented sigh now that the furry menace has been withdrawn from him. “Anyway,” he says, “don’t you got soundcheck in a few hours? Hell, if I were runnin’ on your tight schedule, I’d take this time ‘n be sleepin’.”

The other man shrugs. He pushes Miso off his lap, letting the cat pad away to curl up on his bunk farther down the bus. “It’s much more fun spending time with you. And, besides,” he adds, lifting the lid of a tin on the table with a grin spreading over his face, “I thought we could have a bit of _fun_.”

Jesse peers inside the tin, a single brow quirked at the neatly-rolled blunts inside. Genji takes one and puts it to his lips, grabbing a lighter off the table and cupping the flame to the end of it. He takes a drag through pursed lips and holds the smoke in his mouth for a moment before exhaling and leaning back against the cushions, a lazy smile on his face. 

“Mm,” he hums. Genji holds the blunt to Jesse, who eyes it warily. “Here.”

“Aw. You know I’m okay with jus’ smokin’ my own,” Jesse replies, digging in his pocket for the half-empty box of Marlboros there. 

Genji shakes his head. “No, no. Really, this is fine. _Relax_ a bit, Jesse -- ever since you joined, you have been working nonstop. Let yourself unwind.”

Jesse draws a breath through his nose, taking in the heady scent of weed. “Awright,” he finally drawls, fingers touching the other man’s as he grabs the blunt. He puts it to his lips and mimics Genji, inhaling and holding it in for a moment before letting white smoke slip from between his lips. 

They pass it back and forth for a bit in comfortable silence, smoke curling in the air between them. The effect is pleasurable; Jesse smoked weed a few times when he was younger, but hasn’t done it in years. He lets himself _relax_ and _unwind_ as Genji said, propping his feet up on the table and grinning at the other man, eyes half-lidded.

“I’ve been wonderin’,” he says finally, blowing a ring of smoke and passing it back to Genji, “how’d you get into this all, anyway?”

“What, music?”

“Mm,” Jesse nods. “You ‘n Hanzo. Every band’s got a story. What’s yours?”

Genji takes a drag. “Well,” he begins slowly, drawn-out and heavy. “I grew up in Japan. Hanamura, actually. My parents were.. not pleased with me, growing up. They thought that, perhaps, sending me to one of the strict boarding schools in America might help curb my acting out and teach me a few things.”

He grins and rolls his eyes. “Of course, it had the opposite effect. My friends at the school taught me _so much_ about music -- so many bands I had not heard of before. Queen, Aerosmith, Green Day. I wanted nothing more than to make music like that.”

“Did’ja play much, ‘fore you went to that school?” Jesse asks, curious.

“Mm. I was never much for playing instruments. I was terrible at most of them; the guitar and the piano were the only two I could do anything with,” Genji replies. “Hanzo was always better at playing instruments than I was. _God_ , he can play anything, I swear.”

“Really? Only ever seen him play that bass’a his.”

“Yes. Ask him, some time, if he will show you -- he can play the drums, guitar, piano, synth, wind instruments. And he writes _so_ goddamn well. I have always been jealous of him. He could probably compose an entire song using just an electric triangle, and it would sound amazing.” Genji giggles at the mental image.

“Does he write most’a the music for the songs, then?”

The singer nods. “A good amount of it. Lena helps a bit, of course, as does Amélie. But most of it is his.”

Jesse lets out a low whistle. “Interestin’. How’d you get him to be in the band?”

“He’d helped our father with business in America since he was young, so he already knew much more about the band culture here than I did. We had some.. issues, growing up, but after I’d bugged him enough, he agreed to write a bit for me. Things just fell into place, after that.”

“Lena ‘n Amélie?”

“They went to school with me.”

“What, their parents want t’ straighten ‘em out, too?” Jesse laughs.

“Yes,” Genji replies. “They were both a bit rebellious, at the time. Lena was very into the punk scene -- you should have seen her. Dip-dyed hair, eyeliner. She had it all.”

“Somehow, that don’t surprise me.”

“Mmhm. And Amélie was a bit more of a heavy metal fan. Her parents did not appreciate that. They thought she was practicing Satanism, or something.”

Jesse finishes off the blunt, putting it to his lips one last time and blowing smoke from between them with a laugh. “Well, damn. You’re an interestin’ bunch.”

“I am glad to have met them,” Genji murmurs. He smiles slowly, eyelids heavy as he gazes at Jesse. “Are you enjoying the tour?”

“Yeah. I really am.” Jesse leans back. His body feels heavy, like it’s melting into the couch, head rushing and light, tongue loosening. “‘S nice t’be tourin’ with good folks like you. ‘N it’s always great to have eye candy t’look at.”

“Oh?” Genji says, sitting up. One dark brow quirks and he leans forward closer to Jesse, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. “Anyone in particular?”

Jesse can’t help the giggle-snort that slips from his mouth. “Promise you won’t get mad or tell anyone?” he asks.

“My lips are sealed,” the singer replies, mimicking a zipper over his mouth. 

“Hanzo is _mighty_ fine.” He whispers, feeling like a fifth-grade schoolgirl gossiping about her crush.

“Oh. Oh, my god.” Genji cackles, falling back against the couch cushions and pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. 

“What? Is that bad?” Jesse huffs.

“No, no!” the other man flaps a hand dismissively, grin dancing on his lips. “It’s _great_. Hanzo keeps talking about you. I swear, he _never_ talks this much about anyone. Hell, he never _talks_ this much. He says you ‘get him,’ or whatever.”

“Well,” Jesse drawls, “we have been spendin’ an awful lot’a time together. Mostly talkin’ about music; ‘s nice to have someone to talk to that understands it as well as he does.”

“Listen,” Genji replies. “Keep spending time with him. Please, I know he enjoys it. He’ll never let you know, but he really does.”

Jesse smiles. _Hanzo enjoys spendin’ time with me,_ he thinks happily. _If that ain’t the best damn news I heard all week._

\- - - 

As August nears its end, the tour slowly crawls from Georgia to Miami, Florida.

The humidity only seems to increase the further south they drive, leaving Jesse’s hair a thick, frizzed-out mess underneath his hat and beading sweat on his forehead and neck and chest every time he so much as sets foot outside the comfortably air-conditioned bus. He spent a good part of his youth hitchhiking around the United States, embracing a desire to strike out and explore the world around him on his own in a misguided attempt to find some sense of self that left him only with doubt, still-lingering debt, and a strain on family relations; even then, he had hated being in the southeastern-most part of the country, where mosquitos seemed to haunt every corner and the summer air is less _air_ and more a hot soup that can never be fully drawn into one’s lungs. The dry heat of the southwest, of desert and drought-riddled states like New Mexico and California is still something he far prefers over _this_.

With an unusual day off scheduled just before the band’s show in Miami, Genji sends out a text to a group of unfamiliar numbers, Jesse’s included.

Genji Shimada  
Yoo we're gonna have a beach day today!! grab your bathing suits & surfboards and get ready to shred the gnar  
  


He scrolls through the contact info, brow quirked. Aside from his own, Genji’s, and Fareeha’s, there are five other numbers in the list with varying area codes. Jesse assumes three of them must be Hanzo, Lena, and Amélie -- he can’t imagine the band splitting up to do separate activities on their day off, considering how close they seem to be and the fact that it’s best for a group with a fanbase as large as theirs to maintain closeness in the face of the paparazzi. The other two are an absolute mystery to him.

Another text quickly follows Genji’s.

+1 (202) 555-0162  
Please never use that phrase again.  
  


Jesse chuckles and taps on the number, opening up a new contact. _That’d be Hanzo,_ he thinks, lips pursed in amusement.

Genji Shimada  
one of the california surfer guys in the movie i was watching said it, why can’t I?  
  


Hanzo Shimada  
You aren’t Californian, nor are you a surfer.  
  


_Aw,_ he thinks. Genji doesn’t deserve to be berated for his enthusiasm. He puts his fingers to the screen and types out a quick reply.

hey now let him have his fun  
  


Hanzo Shimada  
I refuse to let someone who thinks “that just dills my pickle” is a good way to say he’s happy weigh in on this conversation about slang.  
  


well damn, sounds like someone’s got a burr in his saddle  
  


Hanzo Shimada  
My point is further proven.  
  


aw. youre getting me right in my southern soul  
  


Hanzo Shimada  
If it will help you refrain from using your awful sayings in the future, then that must be a good thing  
  


+1-503-555-0115   
quit bickering, you two!!! the beach is more important than your little lovers spat. SO!  


  
ive got a bunch of alcohol and a bag of rolos that i can bring with me  
  


+1-518-555-0106   
I think people need more than Malibu and Rolos to exist, chérie..  
  


_Lena and Amélie,_ he supposes, adding them to his contacts as well.

Lena Oxton  
says YOU!  
  


Amélie Lacroix  
Says the majority of the world, actually. It’s a wonder you can function normally off such a diet.  
  


Lena Oxton  
guess im special :)  
  


Amélie Lacroix  
That you are. ;)  
  


Genji Shimada  
should I rename this conversation “lena and amelie’s fuckroom” or are we gonna get back to beach planning?? ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ  
  


Hanzo Shimada  
...  
  


Amélie Lacroix  
...........  
  


uhh  
  


i can bring fritos and a few cans of diet coke  
  


Hanzo Shimada  
You are hopeless.  
  


\- - -

Though dark, angry stormclouds loom on the horizon and Hanzo continually warns Genji about the dangers of Florida beaches during hurricane season, they load up a rented van with towels, chairs, and a few shortboards. The other two numbers in the groupchat seem to belong to Mei-Ling, the short, friendly drum technician who works with Amélie that Jesse has already met, and a rather large and incredibly intimidating, musclebound woman with pink hair introduced to him as Zarya, the band’s bodyguard. ‘Bodyguard,’ singular, Fareeha whispers to him, because she can do the job of several men easily by herself. Jesse doesn’t question this fact. He simply accepts it, feeling like a rabbit in the presence of a grizzly bear.

Hanzo stops by a convenience store to purchase drinks and food that _aren’t_ the spare bits of shit Jesse and Lena offered, and drives them down to a nearby beach. Despite the heat and humidity, Miami’s waterfront is gorgeous. Glittering, blue-green waves crested by seafoam roll and crash upon the pale shore, their roaring coupled with the cries of the gulls that litter the beach and scavenge from unattended lunches and stray food wrappers. Jesse helps the others unload the van, taking several food-filled grocery bags and a beach chair in each hand and following Genji as the younger Shimada blazes the trail and leads them to a small section of the beach to set up their temporary camp. Overhead, the midday sun shines hot upon them, its brightness threatened by the clouds that seem to be slowly creeping upon the blueness of the sky.

They make a small fort of low-backed chairs and colorfully-patterned towels spread out on the warm sand, planting two bright, red-and-white umbrellas in the center to mark their territory. Jesse unbags the food Hanzo had purchased -- a few pre-made store sandwiches, two pizza Lunchables that Genji immediately grabs and stashes away beneath his own chair, several cans of La Croix and bottles of water, and a rather large amount of various fruits and snackable vegetables. It’s a good spread for a light day at the beach, Jesse thinks.

Lena is the first to strip off her normal clothes, balling them up and leaving them on a towel. She seems as pale as the white sand of the beach -- Jesse hopes to God that the girl brought enough sunscreen, wincing as he imagines how painful it would feel to perform with a nasty sunburn. Amélie follows suit, wearing a modest, black one-piece that contrasts Lena’s bright orange bottoms and crop shirt patterned with art of Bowie’s Aladdin Sane album cover. 

Genji, it seems, has absolutely no shame. He takes off his pants to reveal an extremely short, tight bathing suit that seems closer to a swimmer’s Speedo than anything else; he’s got a body that can work it, Jesse supposes -- why hide that? He’s seen most of the singer’s upper body on-stage but quirks a brow upon seeing the other man’s legs, no longer clad in their normal leather pants. The younger Shimada has a tattooed dragon that mimics his brother’s, head curved just below his hip and coiling around one thigh, tail ending above his knee. It seems smoother and less angry than Hanzo’s, a pattern of vibrant greens and swirling, soft yellows. Calm, unlike the storming beast that encircles his older brother’s bicep.

The singer beckons his brother, grabbing one of the shortboards and sliding it beneath his arm. Hanzo nods and tugs the tie from his hair, letting it fall down around his shoulders and slipping the band onto a wrist as he takes another board and follows Genji into the surf. Zarya and Mei, engaged in a deep conversation that seems to involve a lot of smiling and blushing on the smaller woman’s part, wade into the waves side-by-side after the brothers.

Jesse settles back into his chair and pops the tab on a can of La Croix, idly sipping it. His gaze flits back-and-forth between the Genji and Hanzo surfing and Lena rubbing sunscreen onto Amélie’s shoulders, dark hair bobbing as she giggles and ducks her hair at something the drummer murmurs to her. The two women seem lost in their own world, sitting with legs tangled and soft fingers smoothing down each others’ skin; carefully, Lena dots a bit of sunscreen on the tips of two fingers and traces the lotion over the stylized spider that sprawls over Amélie’s back, dark ink tattooed upon her skin. Her famous moniker -- Widowmaker. Jesse recalls seeing the same spider patterned upon her drumkit.

On a towel beside him, Fareeha spreads out, hair tied back in a messy bun and sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

“You enjoying the tour so far?” she asks, tipping the glasses down with a single finger to look at Jesse.

He takes another sip from his can and smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I really am. They’re a fun bunch.”

“Mm,” Fareeha hums in reply. “As much as I hate living out of a tour bus, I think I’ll be sad when this is all over. The longer the tour goes on, the more everyone starts to become a family.”

“I can see that. Seems like the four’a them’re already a big family, though. S’nice to see; some bands, they don’t work out too well,” Jesse says. “Lot’o them seem to only put on the happy smiles ‘n friendship for the shows ‘n the cameras. Off-stage, they’re a real wreck. Seen it one too many times.”

Fareeha dips her head in agreement. “I’ve seen that happen, as well. It’s a shame.” She crosses her arms behind her head, propping her neck up on them. “At least they seem genuine. Especially Genji -- sure, he can be a big high-maintenance, but he’s a great guy. He doesn’t let everything get to his head, like a lot of frontmen seem to.”

“He’s a great guy,” Jesse replies. “Smokes a bit too much, but otherwise. Y’know.”

The woman lets out a snort of laughter, grinning at him. “Yeah. Part of me wonders if the old guitar tech left because he was sick of smoking so much weed with Genji.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, if I’m bein’ honest.”

He finishes the La Croix and crushes the can in his fist, setting it beside him in the sand, eyes tracking Hanzo as the other man crests a wave on his board. From the corner of his eye, he can see Fareeha watching him, a knowing look on her face.

“Seems like you and Hanzo have been getting close, huh?” she asks after a moment, forehead creased curiously.

Jesse scratches the back of his head sheepishly, offering a shrug. “‘S nice to be around someone else who cares so much about music. Not that the others don’t, mind you -- Lena can go on and on about these.. weird ol’ British bands and their guitarists, and Amélie knows her fair bit ‘bout drums. But Hanzo…” he trails off, staring down at his toes as he digs them into the warm sand. “Every time I think he can’t possibly know more ‘bout music, he surprises me with somethin’ else. He ain’t in it for the money or the glory. Seems like he just wants to make somethin’ good. His mark on the world.”

“Nobody’s gotten as close to him as you seem to have,” Fareeha muses. “Aside from his brother, of course. And Amélie -- those two have the oddest relationship I’ve seen. I guess you two just understand each other. Music can create powerful friendships.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It really can.”

He eats one of the sandwiches they’d brought and dozes off by Fareeha in the sun for a bit while the others enjoy the water. Jesse wakes up to Genji shaking his hair above him, splattering his body with seawater. 

“Should have gone in!” Genji chirps, jerking his head at the ocean. “Water’s _perfect_.”

“Maybe in a bit,” Jesse replies. 

“You can borrow my board, if you want.”

He eyes the surfboard warily and shakes his head. “Never done it before. I’d look like a right fool.”

Another voice sounds from behind Genji. “I can teach you, if you would like,” Hanzo says. 

The bassist’s hair clings to his face and shoulders, water glistening in the sun over his tattooed bicep. His suit is far more modest than Genji’s, simple black, tight-fit shorts that leave more to the imagination than his brother’s. Though Jesse has seen his chest through the slits of the low-cut black muscle tank he customarily wears onstage, he notices something new -- small, silver barbells pierce each of his nipples crosswise. They’re easy enough to miss if one isn’t looking closely, Jesse supposes; and he’d be hard-pressed to admit that he _wasn’t_ doing just that. The sight makes his lips part in surprise, because the piercings are so _un_ -Hanzo. There’s more to the other man than meets the eye, he thinks.

Genji towels off his messy black hair and grins at Jesse, waggling his eyebrows not-so-subtly. “I think that sounds like a great idea!” he announces, and unceremoniously drops his shortboard at Jesse’s feet. “Go on. Have fun. Learn some new things.”

“I -- y’know, I don’t know if I can do this,” Jesse huffs. “Never been much’ve a fish in the water.”

Hanzo quirks a brow. “It is a good thing, then,” he replies, “that the point of surfing is to stand _out_ of the water, then, on top of the board.”

He squats down and wraps the velcro leash on Genji’s board around Jesse’s ankle and hands the surfboard to him. “Come. You are wasting the day, sitting on the shore like this.”

“Wait -- what if that’s what I wanted t’do?” Jesse barks.

Hanzo simply looks at him exasperatedly and turns heel, walking back toward the surf as if expecting Jesse to follow him. Jesse turns around and looks at Genji, hands splayed in the air in a _the fuck do I do?_ motion. The other man shoots him a grin, makes a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and moves a straightened finger of his right hand several times through the ‘o’. 

With an annoyed huff, Jesse rolls his eyes at Genji and picks up his board, nearly tripping over the leash strapped around his ankle as he drags it down the beach and wades into the water after Hanzo.

He watches carefully and lies belly-down upon his board as Hanzo does, mimicking the other man’s movements. They paddle out from the shore -- right, left, right left -- feet dragging small trails in the water. Hanzo presses his chest forward and holds his breath as waves surge up, smoothly ducking beneath the water to avoid being carried away; Jesse attempts to do the same several times, but is left with salt stinging his eyes and flooding his nose and mouth, coughing and sputtering bitter water with hair stuck messily to his forehead from the wave hitting him full-force in the face. 

Once they are finally far enough out, Hanzo turns on his board to face Jesse. The waves are smaller here, far from the shore; they bob along with the current.

“Surfing is simple,” Hanzo begins, staring at Jesse as a teacher might a student. “It is about balance. When you feel the right wave, you paddle forward to match it; then, when the wave has caught you, push up and stand upon the board with your legs bent and ride it out.”

“Easier said than done,” Jesse deadpans. “How ‘bout you show me?”

“We will try a wave together. Watch me, and do as I do.”

Hanzo paddles forward to where the waves are more violent, and Jesse follows him. He waits for a minute or two, assessing the waves until he finally finds one he seems to deem suitable. The bassist suddenly begins to paddle his arms furiously, legs kicking out behind his board, twinning the wave’s speed. Jesse does the same, and as soon as Hanzo stands up and balances upon his board, he attempts to do so as well. 

Smoothly, Hanzo rides out the current, board splitting through foamy waves as he edges toward the shore. Less smoothly, Jesse manages to stand on his board for a whopping two seconds before falling off and bellyflopping into the ocean, body tumbling forward as the wave he’d tried to surf breaks above him.

He surfaces, spitting out saltwater, and Hanzo paddles back to him with an amused look on his face. “I thought cowboys were supposed to be able to ride anything?” he asks.

“Keep laughin’. I’ll wipe that smug look off your pretty face.”

Hanzo doesn’t miss a beat, smirk simply widening at Jesse’s threat. “Let us hope you can make good on this challenge, then.”

Jesse tries. He tries and tries and _tries_ , but he just can’t seem to get the damn board to stay underneath his feet. Each time he stands up and thinks he’ll _finally_ be able to surf out a wave, the board slips and leaves him to fall forward and faceplant into the water while an increasingly smugger Hanzo laughs beside him. Finally, he gives up, flopping onto his board and resting his chin upon it, content to simply let the soft current roll beneath him.

Hanzo crosses his arms in front of him on his own board and leans forward, chin resting on his wrists. Together, they idly move up and down with the waves; Jesse closes his eyes and takes a breath, smelling the salt on his skin and and fresh breeze that rustles his hair. He cracks an eye and looks at the man beside him, resting in his own way and contemplating the waters.

“Never took you for a piercings kind’a guy,” Jesse murmurs, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. Hanzo glances at him and presses his lips in a thin line.

 

“A drunken bet with my brother,” he says after a moment. “I do not mind them much, though I try not to make a habit of showing them off.”

“Why? I think they look nice. Give you an edge.”

Hanzo snorts. “And what about yourself?” he asks, turning the conversation on Jesse. “Do you have any hidden secrets like mine?”

Jesse _hmm_ s in thought. “Got a shitty skull tattoo on my back when I was younger. Right in the tramp stamp area. Thought it was mighty cool, bein’ in a gang when I was a kid.”

“A gang?”

“Yeah.” He chews his lip, not wanting to talk much about a darker time in his life. “Went down the wrong path. Thankfully, music pulled me out. Guitar teacher helped me right my fuckin’ life and gave me a purpose. Somehow, I ended up here.”

Hanzo nods understandingly. “Music has helped me through times in my life I did not think I would be able to survive, as well.”

“I read an article the other day,” Jesse replies. “Genji was talkin’ ‘bout the band ‘n tour, all that. Said one of the songs the two’a you wrote together ‘bout some rough time.”

“Yes.” The single word cuts through the air -- remorseful. Thoughtful. “Growing up, we were.. not close. We had a rather terrible fight, once.” Hanzo looks down, staring absentmindedly at the dark waves beneath them. “I am sure you will understand if I ask that we do not talk about this.”

“‘Course, ‘course. Just curious, was all. I’m glad you’n I both pulled through everythin’, though. We’re better’n our pasts.”

The other man dips his head solemnly. “Indeed.”

Above them, the stormclouds finally break and spill. Rain patters down upon the water, splashing down on the waves. Freshwater mingles with saltwater; it pools on their boards and slips down Jesse’s cheeks and forehead. He watches as Hanzo tilts his neck back and closes his eyes peacefully, letting the rain drip upon his skin, mouth pressed in a soft, contented smile. 

“Do you hear it?” Hanzo murmurs, lips parted. “The music?”

Jesse stares at him, hyperaware of the way the small droplets weigh down upon Hanzo’s lashes and slowly drip upon his cheeks. He listens to the steady drum of the rain against the ocean, nature making its own, beautiful kind of music. 

“Yeah,” he replies. Drops fall from the sky, pittering and pattering; the beat sounds almost like Amélie, tapping softly upon her drum kit. “Yeah, I hear the music.”

\- - -

**Genji** @bettershimada   
day off at the beach ;)  https://t.co/5amNj91l  
**7,982** RETWEETS **17.4K** LIKES

**genji stan** @gnjishimada  
@traceroxtons LRT DID YOU SEE GENJI’S PIC OF THE BAND AT THE BEACH  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@gnjishimadayes!! Omg they’re so cute i love them  
  


\- - -

Hanzo Shimada  
Are you there?  
  


yeah sorry just woke up frm a nap  


what’s up?  
  


Hanzo Shimada  
Soundcheck started ten minutes ago. Lena needs to know where you are.  
  


aw fuck lemme put pants on i’ll be there in a sex  


SEC* sorry  
  


✓ **Read** 5:23 PM  


\- - -

Lena easily forgives him for being late to soundcheck when he shows up bearing apologies and a bottle of her favorite hard lemonade, bedraggled and with his shirt, as Hanzo gracefully tells him, on inside-out. She flashes him a bright smile and goes off to talk with Amélie while he checks on each of her guitars, tuning them differently as needed for the songs in the band’s nightly set. While his fingers turn pegs carefully and check strings, his eyes wander; in the center of the stage, Mei-Ling tunes Amélie’s kit, examining each of the drums and talking with Fareeha to ensure that the sounds are correct. Jesse can see Hanzo on the far side of the stage, fingers plucking chords on his guitar and turning dials, nose scrunched in focus. Lips pressed in a small smile, Jesse watches the other man engross himself in his tuning; after a minute or two, Hanzo looks up and meets his eyes and holds his gaze for a moment before looking back down at his instrument.

“How’s everything lookin’?” Lena chirps, popping back over to check on him with Amélie trailing behind her.

Jesse smooths a hand down the body of her Tracer model, nodding his head with a sense of finality. “Think I’m all done here,” he replies, handing the guitar carefully to her. “For now, at least. Gotta see how they’re all soundin’.”

“Well, let’s check ‘em out!” Lena slings the strap over her shoulder and cradles the guitar, putting her fingers to the strings. “Go on, grab one!”

He’s gotten fairly used to this -- together, they test each guitar’s tuning by playing in tandem. It’s fun to play instruments he’d never have the money to purchase on his own; _she’s_ fun to play with, if a bit unpredictable in song choice.

Tonight, it seems, she’s in a Guns ‘n Roses mood. Jesse hears the opening chords to ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ and a grin spreads across his face, watching her play the iconic beginning to a song he’s loved since he was young. She glances up from her guitar and giggles at the look on his face, jerking her head to nod at the instrument he holds -- _c’mon_ , he can hear her saying in his head.

Jesse puts his fingers to the strings and smoothly joins her, playing the lower chords while she continues the opening riff. Dropping his voice in a terrible, gritty imitation of Axl Rose, he sings the lyrics as Lena trots around and presses against him, the two of them leaning against each other back-to-back and attempting (failing) to fight off the laughter that seeks to overwhelm them. After a good minute and a half of playing the song, Jesse’s voice finally gives out, unable to maintain his shitty attempt at doing Rose’s voice any justice. Lena leans her head against his shoulder and giggles, letting go of her guitar’s neck and allowing it to swing freely against her.

“God, that was fun,” she chirps. 

“Felt like I was garglin’ rocks,” Jesse replies, rolling his eyes. “Don’t know how that man can sing like he does.”

“Aw. I think you did a nice enough job, love. Smoke a few more packs a day, ‘n you’ll sound like ‘im in no time!” She laughs and turns back to the rack of now-tuned guitars, placing her Tracer in with them and plucking out another one. “Mind gettin’ this one for me? Just play a little somethin’ with it, I’ll listen this time.”

He nods and takes it, putting the strap around his shoulder. Across the stage, he can see Hanzo starting to play a generic bassline, testing his instrument; behind him, Amélie is seated at her drums, sticks in hand as she carefully tests her kit. With a grin, Jesse pounces on the opportunity. He puts his fingers to the strings and starts the opening chords of Santana’s ‘Smooth’ -- a _bit_ spicier than anything Guns ‘n Roses has to offer, but iconic nonetheless.

Amélie immediately picks up on it, smiling smoothly at him and adding her drums to the mix. He resists the urge to laugh and continues playing, focus halved between the intense chords the song requires and the burgeoning look of mixed realization and exasperation on Hanzo’s face. Instead of stopping, the bassist continues his own playing, indulging Jesse and Amélie as they continue the song.

Jesse edges toward Hanzo’s side of the stage, smile widening on his face when the other man rolls his eyes and continues his bassline. From the corner of his eye, he spots Genji standing next to Lena; the singer gives him a wink and a smile, and Jesse nods back as he sings the melody and steps in front of Hanzo, fingers flying over the strings.

“ _My_ muñequita,” he croons, a shit-eating grin dancing on his lips, “ _My Spanish Harlem Mona Lisa -- you're my reason for reason, the step in my groove, ye-ah._ ” 

He ends the verse with a flourish of his hand on the guitar and wags his brows at Hanzo. The bassist stares at him, deadpan, but Jesse can see the edges of his lips quirked up slightly as if he’s attempting to suppress a smile; _score one, Jesse McCree_ , he thinks.

The song-playing devolves into a fit of laughter shared across the stage as Jesse’s blatant and purposefully terrible hip-thrusting and gyrating becomes too much for them all. 

“That was awful,” Hanzo murmurs, but the smile upon his face meets his eyes.

“Aw. C’mon, now -- I think I did Santana some justice.”

“You probably took years from his life with your terrible cover of his song.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Jesse laughs. “I saw that li’l smile. You were havin’ fun.”

Hanzo’s lips press in a thin line, still upturned. He dips his head. “I was,” he admits quietly.

\- - -

**Genji** @bettershimada   
KENTUCKY!! I heard your fried chicken is pretty good, hopefully your crowds are BETTER!!!  https://t.co/3nvRk43e  
**5,449** RETWEETS **16.7K** LIKES

  


**Genji** @bettershimada   
and we’ve got a special surprise for you all tonight ;)  
**4,321** RETWEETS **14.9K** LIKES

  


**lena oxton** @TRACER   
@bettershimadathis show is gonna be WICKED!!!  
**2,879** RETWEETS **9.7K** LIKES

**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
@bettershimada @TRACER so excited for the KY show tonight!!  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
@traceroxtons that soundcheck guy you mentioned is here too doing tune-ups on Lena’s guitar and Hanzo’s bass… he really DOES look like a sexy lumberjack omfg https://t.co/6mpRa31f  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@shimadASS ikr. not all heroes wear capes. some just wear tight plaid shirts  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
@traceroxtons soundcheck guy is talking to Hanzo... damn I don’t think i’ve ever even seen hanzo smile in an interview but   


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
@shimadASS @traceroxtons  he’s smiling rn at this dude, lookhttps://t.co/2efBq36l  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
@traceroxtons i can see soundcheck guy standing off to the side and he’s clapping and singing along Awww   
  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
THE SHOW WAS SO GOOD IT LITERSLLY JUST ENDED IM SCREAMINg  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
OMG THEY PLAYED“CYBERNETIC LOVE”?? THEYVE NEVER PLAYED THIS LIVE BEFORE  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
WHEN DID THEY ADD THIS TO THE SET  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
Lena went up and kissed amelie on the cheek during “on your way” and I almost died. my heart  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@shimadASS that’s ADORABLE  


**Hanzo Plz Strum Me** @shimadASS  
and Genji hugged Hanzo at the end of “brother mine” it was SO CUTE  
  


\- - -

Jesse’s view from the side of the stage was nothing less than perfect. He really, _really_ appreciated the wonderful picture that was Hanzo Shimada, strutting around the stage like a big cat on the prowl, hips framed by tight pants rocking sensually against his dark guitar and deft fingers flying over the strings with beautiful precision.

After the show is finished and the buses are loaded up, Hanzo beckons to him. Jesse follows the other man to the top of his tour bus where they sit, side-by-side, staring at the night sky and talking about music and bands and everything and nothing until the post-show nerves have died down and comfortable tiredness has consumed them both in a routine that has grown familiar over the past several weeks. Hanzo’s tattooed arm presses against his own, warm and heavy. Relaxed. Unworried.

 _I could get used to this,_ Jesse thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [smooth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Whgn_iE5uc) and [sweet child o mine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzAGZT_XTAk) are both some pretty wonderful classics. give them a listen if you've never heard them! the inclusion of smooth in this chapter goes out to my friends on twitter wink wink
> 
> thank you to all for reading and leaving nice messages/kudos! this fic is super self-indulgent and fun to write. also, cats.
> 
> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/starscryy) and [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> thank you to ugyaaa for [this gorgeous art of chapter 1 ovo)/](http://ugyaaa.tumblr.com/post/148994931727/i-was-super-inspired-by-the-first-chapter-of-this)


	3. desperado

A three-day stop on the tour in New York City provides a well-needed break for the band from their typical schedule of driving, playing, and more hours of long driving. With most of their time scheduled to be taken up by interviews, live-recording sessions, and other press events, Lena immediately grapples on to the single, mostly-free day and cheerfully drags everyone along to sightsee with her. 

From their venue in Hell’s Kitchen, she leads them down to the nearest subway stop where, after a good amount of bickering, looking at maps, apologizing to disgruntled passengers for standing in a clump and blocking the flow of foot traffic, and lamenting the lack of cell service underground to aid them in their quest, they finally manage to figure out the route they want to take. Nearly forty-five minutes later (something Hanzo, particularly, doesn’t let them forget, reminding the others that they could’ve _walked_ there in the span of time it took them to understand the subway system) they arrive at 6th Avenue and make their way into Central Park. 

Jesse’s fascinated; despite the amount he travelled around the U.S. in his youth, he never made it to New York City. The fact that there’s a massive, thriving park in the center of one of the world’s biggest metropolises is simultaneously odd and astounding. Side-by-side, he and the bandmembers walk amongst towering trees that are stained hues of yellow and orange and brilliant reds, autumn’s touch transforming their branches into bright beacons of color that look like fire against a backdrop of dusty September clouds. Rows of graceful lampposts stand resolutely beside benches that line the pathway, populated by resting tourists, artists, and lounging parkgoers flipping through books spread in their laps. As they walk, crisp leaves crunch beneath their boots, and a chilly fall breeze ruffles their hair and stings their cheeks a pale shade of red.

Jesse can’t help the feeling of inadequacy that creeps upon him as he walks with the band. Everything they do seems so _effortless_ ; even dressed down in comfortable shirts, sweaters, and pants, they look like advertisements straight from the fall issues of GQ or Vogue. He glances down at his own choice of outfit -- typical jeans and plaid, the attention-attracting cowboy hat ditched at Hanzo’s request. It’s modest and comfortable, exactly what he would wear any other day and something that normally wouldn’t give him pause, were he not walking in the middle of, arguably, _the_ most style-conscious city in the world alongside four people that seem incredibly in-tune with the latest fashions. Even Lena, wearing one of her typical punk band tees, has managed to match it with dark leggings, combat boots, and a leather jacket in an effortlessly disheveled style. Jesse scrunches his nose and thinks back to the rooftop in Atlanta, Hanzo’s questioning gaze and quiet inquiry: _Why are you fixing guitars for a living, instead of singing?_

_I wouldn’t last a second onstage,_ he thinks. The massive crowds, thousands of prying eyes picking him apart -- style, looks, music, the way he walks and talks and carries himself. Too much; too overwhelming. Living vicariously through the band onstage while aiding them in the shadows is, and always has been, his best bet. 

He puts the thought from his head and idly walks with the other four, attempting to focus on the beauty of Central Park and the idle banter between Amélie and Hanzo. Eventually, they come to a stop by a large pond and Genji buys them pretzels at a nearby food cart. They sit by the pond’s edge, eating and watching a group of children drive little, remote-controlled toy boats across the water’s surface.

“Watch this,” Genji chirps after a moment, tearing off a bit of his pretzel and holding it up. The realization hits Hanzo first; he reaches out to grab the food before it leaves his brother’s hand, crying “Genji, stop!” 

Too late, the bit of pretzel flies through the air and lands several feet away from them, right in front of a pigeon. Curiously, the bird pecks at it and bobs its head. Jesse wonders why Hanzo was so intense about Genji not throwing the pretzel. Another pigeon flies down to peck at it. Then another. And another. Soon, pigeons swarm around them in multitudes, Genji continuing to tear up his pretzel and feed it to the swaths of dirty grey wings like some sort of maniacal overlord controlling his masses. Finally, Jesse understands.

Hanzo rubs his temples and shoos away several curious pigeons that attempt to peck at his own pretzel. Lena and Amélie laugh, and Jesse watches as Lena begins tearing up her pretzel and holding it in both of her palms, extending her arms wide; soon, pigeons deck her limbs, pecking at the bread and perching idly on her body. Genji does the same and the two mimick each other, outstretched arms weighed down by the fat grey birds. 

“Looks like y’all made a few new friends,” Jesse laughs, the edges of his eyes crinkling happily as he looks at Lena and Genji.

“This is our new army,” Lena says and devolves into a fit of giggles that, surprisingly, doesn’t startle a single pigeon off her.

“Yeah? Better make sure they don’t poop on you,” he replies. “‘Specially with all’a that food you’re feedin’ ‘em.”

Genji wrinkles his nose at the thought and Jesse snorts. While Amélie takes her phone from her pocket and moves to take a picture of the two, he sits back down beside Hanzo and nudges the other man with a shoulder. 

“You doin’ all right?” he asks. Hanzo meets his eyes but doesn’t offer a reply. Brow quirked, Jesse continues, “what? Pigeon got your tongue?”

Hanzo stares at him with dead eyes. “One of them pooped in my hair,” he grits out, the words of a man utterly defeated.

Jesse cranes his neck and sees the telltale white spot of bird shit and promptly loses it. He bursts out laughing, head in his hands -- the image of Hanzo, completely deadpan as he speaks those words will never leave his mind. He looks back up and the other man is frowning, cheeks dusted red in embarrassment. “Sorry, sorry,” Jesse apologizes, wiping a tear from his eye with a finger. “That was just _too_ damn good. Of course that’d happen to you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hanzo barks indignantly. 

“Well,” Jesse replies, “y’ain’t got the Devil’s luck, that’s for sure.”

Hanzo huffs and looks away, staring sullenly across the water. Digging in his pocket, Jesse takes out a brown napkin he’d saved earlier from the pretzel cart. “Here,” he offers, taking Hanzo’s ponytail in his hands and gently wiping as much of the bird shit out as he possibly can. “Now, nobody’ll know.”

“ _Everybody_ will know,” Genji counters from behind them, phone in hand. He turns the screen so Jesse and Hanzo can see the beautiful, hi-res image of Hanzo’s shitty hair, already posted to Twitter.

 **Genji** @bettershimada   
hanzo made a new bird friend in Central Park :Dhttps://t.co/4nvEn42a  
**20** RETWEETS **76** LIKES  
  
“Give me that,” Hanzo yelps, swiping at Genji’s hand in an attempt to get his phone. His brother nimbly dodges the attack and steps back, a shit-eating grin spread wide on his face. “Not a chance, big brother,” he chirps. Hanzo groans and puts a hand to his face, fingers dragging the his bottom eyelids down exasperatedly. “Sometimes, I wonder why we are related,” he growls. Jesse chuckles, his laughter echoed by Lena and Amélie. A moment of wonder and thankfulness washes over him; _God, I’m lucky,_ thinks. Lucky to have come by this job. Lucky to have fallen in so well with such wonderful people. Lucky to be friends with these four. He stares at Hanzo, fondness for his brother quirking his lips upward in a closed smile despite attempts to maintain his stoic, angry façade. _Lucky_ , Jesse thinks. 

\- - - 

  
**Z100NY:** We'd like to give a warm welcome to North Wind Rising who are here in New York City for a few days while on tour.  
**Z100NY:** They'll be with us for a bit answering some of your questions!  
**Z100NY:** Thanks for coming, guys.

 **Widowmaker:** Hello  
 **bettershimada:** hi i'm hanzo i play the bass  
 **ShimadaH:** No, you aren't. I'm Hanzo.  
 **TRACER:** No i'm dirty dan

  
**Z100NY:** It looks like we have our first question coming through.  
Question from **snakeinmyboot** : hi guys, hope you’re liking New York so far :) my question is for the whole band, what advice would you give to an aspiring musician?

  
 **ShimadaH:** Practice. The only way you can get better is by doing it over and over again.  
 **bettershimada:** sleep with a record producer  
 **TRACER:** is that what you did?  
 **bettershimada:** i don’t kiss and tell ;)  
 **ShimadaH:** He didnt.  
 **bettershimada:** :(  
 **Widowmaker:** lol  
 **bettershimada:** but to answer your question seriously, hanzo is right. practice your instrument, sing a lot, write music you want to write  


  
Question from **BLACKP4R4DE** : Would you guys rather fight 100 duck-sized horses or 1 horse-sized duck?

  
 **TRACER:** i’ve been waiting my entire life to be asked this question. FINALLY!!!  
 **TRACER:** i would fight the horse-sized duck because there’s a possibility of me winning and being able to ride it  
 **Widowmaker:** Isn’t a horse-sized duck just a dinosaur  
 **bettershimada:** i don’t have enough hands to pet 100 duck-sized horses  
 **ShimadaH:** The duck..  


  
Question from **bj100** : do you guys have to deal with a lot of paparazzi while on tour?

  
 **bettershimada:** not a ton so far, thankfully… i did see one picture of hanzo looking angry right after he spilled his starbucks all over his white shirt in boston the other day  
 **ShimadaH:** What?? Someone got a picture of that?  
 **TRACER:** it’s my phone background right now  
 **Widowmaker:** It’s a very funny picture.  
 **ShimadaH:** Is it possible to get things taken off the internet??  
 **bettershimada:** LMAO  


  
Question from **kayleeligi** : favorite thing to order at starbucks? (:

  
 **Widowmaker:** Iced caramel macchiato  
 **bettershimada:** strawberry refresher with coconut milk  
 **TRACER:** i like the smores frap but anything sweet is good  
 **ShimadaH:** Double tall nonfat latte with an added shot.  


  
Question from **boyfrombrooklyn** : Do you have any pre-show rituals?

  
 **Widowmaker:** Listening to Black Sabbath  
 **bettershimada:** i like to dance around a bit  
 **TRACER:** sneaking onto amélie’s drums before soundcheck  
 **ShimadaH:** Cleaning my guitar a certain way.  


\- - - 

When Genji had asked him if he could watch Miso for a bit and make sure she ate her dinner while the band did another round of interviews, Jesse hadn’t imagined it would entail so much _work_.

The cat eyes him warily from Genji’s bunk on the bus, hunched in the back corner with a stiff spine and claws dug into the blanket. Jesse shakes her bowl, filled to the brim with dried food, and makes the same kissing sound for what feels like the goddamn umpteenth time. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he coos. Miso blinks her single eye and flicks an ear in acknowledgement.

Jesse huffs and rocks back on his heels. “Fuckin’ dumpster cat,” he mutters. Since he’d started taking care of her while the band’s press interviews ramped up as they hopped from city to city, she’d slowly begun to warm up to him; the odd brush against his legs, occasionally forgoing her normal savaging of his arm in favor of a more _light_ clawing. He’d figured _maybe_ they were on the level of friendship, now, where she would eat in front of him. Genji had warned that she sometimes wouldn’t eat and would wake the bus up with her meowing in the middle of the night if that happened -- something he doesn’t want, for the sake of the others. Jesse can see the sense in this.

He strategically places the food bowl in front of her and backs away, arms crossed over his chest as he waits for her to take a bite. The cat simply blinks again and kneads the blanket a bit, steadily holding his gaze for a couple of minutes. No dice.

“Christ on a crutch,” Jesse growls, looking around the bus for _something_ she might eat. _Bingo_ , he thinks, zeroing in on the fridge in the kitchenette. Popping a squat, he rummages through cans of soda and beer and old takeout containers, most of which are marked _Lena - DO NOT EAT (that means you, Genji)!_ in bold Sharpie. In one of the small pullout drawers he finds a half-empty package of cold-cut turkey and pulls it out triumphantly, walking back to the cat.

Shredding a few slices into cat-sized pieces, Jesse dangles a clump of turkey in front of her. “C’mon, little kitty. Eat up,” he chirps. Miso seems _far_ more enticed by this than the boring, dry food he’d offered earlier; she twitches her whiskers in consideration, and Jesse can see her little, black nose wiggling as she sniffs. He tosses a piece in front of her and she quickly snaps it up, tongue darting out to lick her muzzle and eyes staring expectantly back at him as if to say, _I demand more._ He palms a pile of shredded turkey and extends his hand just beneath her head. He’s met with considerable enthusiasm -- Miso digs right in, ears twitching happily as she eats. Jesse considers it a win in his book; he’s pretty sure he even hears a purr or two rumble from her chest.

His newfound moment of friendship is ended when the door of the bus is slammed open and Miso hisses at the noise, darting from Genji’s bunk and skittering across the tiled floor of the bus to her hiding spot at the back. Jesse lets out a groan, dusting bits of turkey from Genji’s comforter and sealing the bag of cold cuts back up ruefully. He peeks around to the door, where a battered-looking Hanzo stands, loosening a black tie from around his neck and popping the first few buttons of his white dress shirt. Despite his tiredness, he still somehow manages to look like an immaculate model that should be on a fucking New York Fashion Week catwalk instead of in a band tour bus, long hair let out of its normal updo and slicked back from his face, a crisp black waistcoat buttoned beneath his suit jacket with matching pressed slacks and shining dress shoes. 

“Rough day at the office?” Jesse asks, offering a soft smile. He remembers the package of meat still in his hands and flaps it up and down. “Maybe a piece’a turkey’ll cheer you up.”

“Turkey. _Really,_ ” Hanzo deadpans, more statement than question. He meets Jesse’s gaze with tired eyes and shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it around one of the couch arms. Fingers card through his slicked-back hair to muss it, letting dark locks fall into his eyes and frame his face. With a groan, Hanzo collapses onto the couch, sinking back into the cushions as if he wants nothing more than to become one with them. 

Jesse sets the package of turkey on the counter and sits beside Hanzo, leaning back and spreading his arms out along the top of the couch. The other man stifles a yawn with the crook of his elbow, head leaning against the cushion, just brushing the edge of Jesse’s arm, eyes staring groggily at the dim lights above where they sit.

“You doin’ some modelling today, or somethin’? That’s a nice look on you, I gotta admit,” he comments.

Hanzo dips his head. “A photoshoot for a magazine. Why they could not have gotten Genji to do it, I do not know,” he replies, sighing.

 _Nothin’ bad ‘bout Genji, but he sure as Hell ain’t as good lookin’ as you, darlin’_ , Jesse wants to say. “Interviews go well?” he asks instead. Hanzo turns his head and stares at him, gaze half-lidded, nodding his head slowly.

“Well enough,” he mutters. “I do not enjoy spending hours being asked the same five questions over and over by different people. It is so tedious and tiring.”

“I’d imagine it would be. There’s only so many times you can get ‘what advice do you have for someone who wants to be a musician like you’ before y’just wanna explode.”

Hanzo snorts. “Exactly,” he says. 

“Where’re the others?”

The bassist’s lips press together in a thin line as he exhales a sigh through his nose. “They wanted to go out to dinner. I excused myself and came back here -- I am too tired. I have had my fill of people for one day.”

“Oh,” Jesse says. He blinks and rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Well, shoot. Uh. If y’want me outta here so you can sleep, I’ll leave.” Scooting to the edge of the couch and tensing to do so, a firm hand grabs his wrist and pulls him back. Hanzo stares at him and shakes his head a few times.

“No,” he states. “Stay. Please.”

“If you really want me to, I guess I can.” Leaning back into the couch cushions, he lets his eyes wander over Hanzo’s face; tired and bruised half-moon bags curve beneath his eyes, and his mouth has a weary set to it, lips downturned. Having to constantly be _on_ all the time, dealing with interviews, venue staff, the constant presence of the other bandmembers taking away any and all privacy he might have, and thousands of fans with expectations to be met must be rough on him, Jesse thinks; he wonders how Hanzo manages everything. Hell, Jesse can’t blame him for wanting to be _away_ from people, if only for a few hours. 

“Anythin’ I can do to help, darlin’?” he drawls. Hanzo tilts his head and considers him for a few moments, the gears turning silently in his head.

“Will you play for me?” the other man murmurs.

The request comes as a surprise, but Jesse’s no stranger to the way music soothes the soul and settles the mind. “‘Course I will. I ain’t got my guitar with me here, though. It’s on the other bus.”

“Lena has one you can borrow in here,” the bassist assures him. He points to a storage cabinet at the end of the bunks. “It is over there.”

Jesse nods and fishes it out from a pile of other miscellaneous instruments, an acoustic six-string that’s far nicer than the old, beat-up one he owns. He settles down next to Hanzo once more and rests it in his lap, plucking the strings and tuning it until the sound feels right. “Any particular requests?” he asks, eyebrow raised expectantly.

Hanzo shakes his head. “Something slow,” is all he stipulates. 

“Somethin’ slow,” Jesse echoes, his mind running through an internal jukebox, hundreds of songs loaded up and ready to be played. One stands out -- perfectly slow, an old Eagles song that’s always resonated with him. “All right. I can do that.”

He plays the opening chords, glancing at Hanzo from the corner of his eye and noting that the other man’s eyes have begun to droop. Jesse smiles a bit, fingers moving slowly over the strings of the guitar. “ _Desperado_ ,” he sings, “ _why don’t you come to your senses? You been out ridin’ fences for so long, now._ ” Voice deep, low, the twang of the music he plays matches the feeling of loneliness and longing in the song; he continues to sing, a careful eye watching Hanzo’s head slowly drop, eyes fluttering closed and a soft sigh escaping his lips. Looking at the other man, the song’s narrative about refusing to fall in love is something Jesse can’t relate to, he thinks. If anything, all he _wants_ is to find love, right now.

Hanzo’s head crooks to the side, cheek pressed against Jesse’s shoulder and strands of dark hair falling in his face. With his eyes closed in sleep and the line of his mouth soft, almost content, the weariness seems to dissipate from Hanzo’s face, Jesse thinks; he looks incredibly peaceful.

He plays out the final chords of the song and the last line spills from his lips in a quiet drawl as Jesse gazes at Hanzo through half-lidded eyes, “ _you better let somebody love you, before it’s too late._ ” 

Jesse sets the guitar aside and slowly brushes a strand of hair from Hanzo’s face, tucking it behind one of the sleeping bassist’s ears.

\- - - 

**GQ Magazine** @GQMagazine   
Fall style gallery: @ShimadaH shows the best of this season’s suit collection https://gq.mn/rV12Lp3  
**598** RETWEETS **1.2K** LIKES  
  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps lrt look at hanzo’s GQ photoshoot it’s definitely relevant to your interests   


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
@traceroxtons I’m fucking dying he looks SO GOOD.  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
@traceroxtons Those suits.. my ass is on fire. save me  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps same tho  


\- - -

Jesse runs his fingers down the body of the guitar in his hands, idling over the dark material of the pickups that rest behind the strings, studded with just-cleaned silver pegs that glint in the backstage light. His hand glides smoothly over the instrument to the jack input, giving it a quick shove to be sure that it’s in all the way; satisfied, he tugs at a string and listens to the rich note echo deep from the amp that sits beside him. Nestling the guitar against his body, he plays a few more notes in succession, testing the tuning and the amp’s sound before he finally pawns everything off to Lena for her final _okay_.

The sound of footsteps approaching him from across the stage and the subsequent, unceremonious shoving of a bass into his face startles Jesse from his working reverie. He glances up and finds Hanzo staring down at him, face tight. The other man holds his guitar out by its shoulder strap.

“Well,” Jesse says after a moment’s lull. “‘S a nice guitar y’got there. Been a nice guitar for the past, uh. Two months.”

“I know that,” Hanzo deadpans. 

“Well, then. There somethin’ you need? Or you just makin’ sure I don’t forget what your guitar looks like?”

“I need you to-” he stops; Jesse can see his jaw working, as if he’s unsure. Nervous, perhaps. “My instrument is not carrying tune. It needs to be re-strung and worked on. Would you do it for me?”

Carefully, Jesse sets Lena’s guitar aside. Memories flit through his mind - conversations with Fareeha and the other band members about Hanzo’s reluctance to let the hands of others touch his instrument, his dogged insistence upon independence. Jesse wonders what could have changed Hanzo’s mind. “‘Course I can,” he murmurs with a soft voice, like someone cooing a shy animal toward them, afraid it might turn tail and flee.

Hanzo passes the bass to his open hands and Jesse sets it on his lap, careful eyes scrutinizing the instrument. The body is a beautiful, glossy black, inlaid with a dark, swirling dragon that seems an echo of the one curling itself around the bassist’s arm. Silver frets upon the dark wood of the neck are matched by strings and pickups of the same color. It’s a gorgeous instrument; Jesse feels the familiar twinge of jealousy in the pit of his stomach and the furrow of his brow, reminded of his own life’s shortcomings and the exorbitant price tag he’ll never be able to afford on a customized instrument like this. 

He sets the thought from his mind and instead focuses on loosening the tuning pegs, unwrapping the strings from where they are curled and pulling them through the bridge at the guitar’s bottom. He sets the used strings aside and reaches for new ones from his kit - a sharp _wait_ stops him in his tracks. Jesse glances up at Hanzo, who holds out new strings, coiled around his palm.

“Use these,” Hanzo insists.

Jesse nods and takes them, slowly; his fingers brush the other man’s and he lets them linger there. A moment of indulgence.

Keenly aware of Hanzo’s eyes on him, Jesse works slowly, carefully, re-stringing the bass with practiced precision. He’s used to the rich sound of the other man’s playing, Hanzo’s mannerisms with his instrument - long periods of time (that he absolutely won’t admit to) spent watching the other man from the sidestage as he engrosses himself in the care of his guitar during soundcheck have led Jesse to an understanding of just how Hanzo likes his bass. Jesse mimics what he’s seen and plugs the guitar into the amp sitting beside him, strumming the strings and turning the tuning pegs until everything is _just_ right. 

Satisfied, he glances up and offers Hanzo a smile. “She’s all yours,” he says, sliding the strap off his shoulder and holding it out to the other man.

“Play for me.”

Jesse quirks a brow at the request. “Anythin’ in particular?”

Hanzo shakes his head and simply rocks back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest expectantly. Fingers to the strings, Jesse plays a few idle notes in thought and gradually moves into the bassline of one of the band’s songs. _Brother Mine_ , his mind reminds him; the song Hanzo wrote the music for alongside Genji.

He plays it halfway through before stopping and looking up at Hanzo, who presses his lips together and nods curtly. 

“Almost perfect,” the other man murmurs. Jesse hands him the guitar and Hanzo turns one of the pegs carefully. With a tug of the string affixed to it, a low, resounding note echoes from the amp. “There.”

Just as abruptly as he’d arrived, Hanzo slings his bass’s strap around his shoulder, murmurs a “thank you,” and takes his leave to practice the night’s set of songs on the other side of the stage. Jesse leans back, scratching his beard in thought. _Wonder what that was all ‘bout._ He watches Hanzo for a few moments, the other man’s neck craned forward and eyes closed, concentrating on the music - he’s a gorgeous sight, clad in dark clothes and combat boots, hair pulled up and tied back, fingers dancing upon his guitar, utterly absorbed by the music. 

Jesse’s moment of private indulgence is cut short by a pair of hands slamming down on his shoulders, jolting him from his thoughts.

“Christ on a crutch!” he yelps, spinning around to see the perpetrator. Genji grins back at him, dark hair slicked back messily and eyes freshly done with liner for the show, Jesse notes. The younger man is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in giddiness.

“So,” Genji says, grin widening. “ _That_ just happened.”

“What?”

“Hanzo let you help him with his bass.”

“Yeah.” Jesse purses his lips in thought, nodding slowly. “Yeah, that was, uh. Somethin’, I guess. Everyone’s always talkin’ about how he likes to do stuff on his own. Guess he must’a changed his mind?”

“Or,” the singer says slyly, slinging an arm around Jesse’s neck and bringing the taller man’s head down to his far shorter level, “maybe that’s his way of saying he likes you.”

Jesse’s eyes drift across the stage once more to Hanzo, considering the other man with a steady gaze. 

_I wish,_ his mind echoes internally. “Naw,” his voice drawls aloud. 

“Come on, cowboy,” Genji crows. “Think about it. He does not like others messing with his instrument. I am the only one he will let hold it, and even _that_ rarely happens. He’s into you.”

“Y’think so?”

“I know my brother. He can be a stubborn ass, and it takes him a while to warm to new people, but I can tell that he has opened up to you lately. And you _know_ I am pulling for you, Jesse.” Genji nods solemnly and winks at Jesse -- it’s the wink of a wingman who will stop at nothing to help a hookup happen. Jesse feels an incredible _gladness_ wash over him; he’s happy that he has fallen in with this band and become such good friends with a genuine -- if a bit eccentric -- person like Genji. 

“Well,” he sighs, the edges of his lips quirking upward in a small smile, “if that ain’t music to my ears. Here I was thinkin’ I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell.” 

“Look,” Genji murmurs, his elbow around Jesse’s neck bringing their heads nearly together, like mischievous co-conspirators, “after the show tonight, take him out somewhere. Just -- please.” His gaze softens, the grin slipping from his face and a tender, sincere look replacing it. “My brother deserves to be happy. He deserves someone to love. Someone like _you._ ”

 _A night out in New York City,_ Jesse thinks. _With someone like_ me.

“You got it, darlin’,” he replies.

\- - -

**Genji** @bettershimada   
new york city. tonight @ terminal 5. be there.https://t.co/3nvRn22e  
**4,329** RETWEETS **12.5K** LIKES  
  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@bettershimada IM HERE!!  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
so excited.. FINALLY getting to see NWR live is a dream ahh  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
@boyfrombrooklyn have fun!! I can’t wait til they come to LA and i can finally see them  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@hanzosbiceps Thanks!!  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
soundcheck guy everyone has been talking about is onstage and I love him already  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
also soundcheck guy looks good in a ponytail  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@boyfrombrooklyn PONYTAIL??   


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@traceroxtons scope this https://t.co/4nvEn42r  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@boyfrombrooklyn hot damn   


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
Aw soundcheck guy just hugged hanzo and gave him his guitar. they seem to be very good friends  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
CONCERT IS STARTING BBL  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@boyfrombrooklyn lmk how it is!  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@traceroxtons It was everything i’ve ever wanted holy shit  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@traceroxtons they played all of my fav songs and burnout was the encore  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@traceroxtons also, like. lena and amélie legit kissed at the end? not just on the cheek like normal Good for them  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@boyfrombrooklyn NO WAY??  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@traceroxtons Guess they decided to open up to the public.Lol new york city is def the place to do it  


**steve | NWR TODAY!** @boyfrombrooklyn  
Ah tonight was so good i’m still dead  


\- - -

After the show is over, Jesse helps case up the instruments and load everything into the buses for their departure in the morning. Hanzo showers off and changes into something more casual and inconspicuous than his normal stage getup -- just a simple, army green jacket and grey shirt to cover up his easily-distinguishable tattoo with a scarf wrapped around his neck to fend off the autumn chill. He pulls his hair back in a messy bun and slides on a pair of thick-framed glasses -- like a long-haired Clark Kent, Jesse thinks, if Clark Kent had an outstanding ass and could rip on a bass like some sort of musical god. They walk the one A.M. Manhattan streets and order cheap gyros from a still-open cart that smells like warm spices and cooking oil and is plastered with bright, mouth-watering pictures of foods that bear little resemblance to the finished product. Jesse slathers his lamb-stuffed pita wrap with hot sauce and relishes the first, warm bite, savory flavors of New York street food flooding his mouth. Beside him, Hanzo wrinkles his nose at a questionable and slightly lopsided falafel wrap.

Despite the late hour, Times Square is still mildly populated; Jesse’s heard the stories, though. He’s not surprised by the amount of people -- New York’s moniker is, after all, ‘the city that never sleeps.’ They meander through groups of tourists and late-night marketers, walking down Broadway to where it intersects with 47th, the junction marked by the massive, red TKTS staircase that’s illuminated and alive like everything else in the Midtown’s night. By the time they take a seat on the bottom step, Jesse’s done with his gyro. He nudges Hanzo and waggles an eyebrow, and the other man simply rolls his eyes and hands over his half-eaten, lumpy falafel pita.

“Mm,” Jesse hums, mouth full of delicious, greasy curbside food. “This shit’s _so_ good. God, we should get one’a these carts t’come on tour with us.”

Hanzo snorts. “I am sure you would never get any work done if that were to happen.”

“Reckon you’re right. Eatin’ these things all day would make me a happy man.”

He finishes off Hanzo’s food and sucks the remaining sauce and grease from his fingers before wiping them off on his jeans. Jesse leans his back against the bright step that’s raised behind them and heaves a sigh of contentment; there’s something about Manhattan at night that he loves. The bright lights and the massive, blinking billboards that advertise almost everything imaginable alongside buildings that touch the sky, their windows never darkened; the oddly endearing smells of car exhaust, baked asphalt, smoke, and hot garbage; the people rushing about and living lives he’ll never be a part of, even in the early hours of the morning; the hum and pulse of everything around him -- a city of neon and chrome that is alive, beating; the feeling of never being alone.

Jesse fishes a cigarette from his pocket and slides it between his lips, cupping a hand around the end and lighting it. From the corner of his gaze he can see Hanzo, arms crossed over his chest, carefully watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“Good show tonight,” Jesse says as he exhales smoke. “Crowd was wild.”

“It was,” Hanzo agrees. The corners of his lips tug down in a frown. 

Jesse quirks a brow. “Somethin’ bitin’ at you?”

“I was not completely satisfied with my performance tonight,” the other man admits. He flexes his fingers, as if the neck of his bass is still in his hands, chords being idly plucked. “My playing felt.. off. Distracted.”

“Sounded fine to me,” Jesse replies, blowing smoke from pursed lips. “Then again, you always sound fantastic.”

“You have not played bass as long as I. Even the slightest mistake I notice,” Hanzo says. “Both a blessing and a curse. For a show as large as this one, it was rather disappointing.”

“S’pose I can’t argue with that. Nobody seemed t’care much, though. I think you’re bein’ a bit too harsh on yourself.”

“I am my only judge. If I do not critique myself, who else will?”

“Angry people on Twitter? The comments section on YouTube?” Jesse offers.

Hanzo grins softly, mimicking Jesse’s posture and relaxing back against the step. “That is true,” he agrees, eyes drifting idly from billboard to billboard, bright, colorful reflections of neon advertisements illuminating the contours of his face. His gaze flickers back to Jesse momentarily. “Devotion to fans or love for the songs we play are not what keep me in this band,” the other man murmurs. “I continue spending endless days driving in buses and touring cities I care little for because I love my brother and wish to see his dreams fulfilled, and because I love the _music_. When I am not able to play as well as I would like to, it is frustrating.”

“If it’s any consolation, I reckon _I’ll_ always love whatever music you play _just_ as much as you do,” Jesse replies. “You’re fuckin’ amazing on stage. Got a presence I ain’t never seen before, and doubt I’ll ever see again.”

Hanzo ducks his head at the praise, a strand of hair falling in his face. Before he can register what he’s doing, Jesse reaches out, tucking it behind the other man’s ear. His hand hovers beside the bassist’s cheek, tips of his fingers lingering, just barely brushing the skin there. Hanzo meets his gaze -- there’s no discomfort, no resentment in his eyes. He simply reaches up, hand touching Jesse’s, slowly twining their fingers together and bringing their joined hands to rest between them.

The fingers of his other hand curl in, beckoning. “May I?” he asks. 

Jesse nods and hands the cigarette over, observing contentedly as Hanzo brings it to his lips and closes his eyes, taking a draw and exhaling. Smoke curls lazily from his mouth like a dragon’s fire and mingles with the chilled night air. He watches the other man’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, his neck tilted slightly back and face framed against the mixed night-and-neon of the living city, two fingers holding the smoldering cigarette to his lips. Hanzo looks like a goddamn painting right now, Jesse thinks.

“Can I ask you somethin’ a bit crazy, right now?” he asks.

Hanzo nods slowly. Curiously.

He swallows and squeezes their laced fingers tighter, thumb rubbing over the bassist’s knuckles. “May I kiss you?”

An exhale of smoke curves into a thin-lipped smile. “You may,” Hanzo replies softly, taking another drag from the cigarette. 

Jesse curls a hand behind Hanzo’s neck, softly cupping the back of the other man’s head. Slowly, he presses his lips to the other man’s in a soft kiss; Hanzo’s mouth parts, smoke drifting from his lips, mingling with Jesse’s breath and filling his mouth, acrid smell flooding his senses. Kissing him feels like Jesse’s favorite things -- hot New Mexico wind during the summer, window rolled down as he drives alone on the interstate; turning the radio up loud and yelling along with his favorite song; late nights spent with his guitar under the yawning desert sky, music mingling with the melodic howls of the coyotes. Teeth tug lightly at his lower lip and the kiss deepens, smoke curling from the sides of their mouths as they push and pull, a heady, perfect mixture of lips and tongues and soft nips from teeth. Warm fingers slide through his scruff and cup his cheek, simmering cigarette dangling lazily from between them, pointed away from his face. 

He pulls back, hand still threaded through the hair at the nape of Hanzo’s neck. A light flush dusts the other man’s cheeks, lips swollen and reddened from their kiss, eyes glinting ferally.

“You taste like falafel,” Jesse laughs, “and smoke.”

Hanzo’s smile reaches his eyes, crinkling into crow’s feet at their edges. “As do you,” he replies, and he tilts his head up to press their lips together once more.

\- - -

After New York City, the rest of the tour seems to pass Jesse by in an incredibly fast blur.

Nearly two months are spent driving through what seem to be endless farming plains and dusty rows of corn that seem to be hallmarks of middle America; the lush roadside forests and grassy fields of the Northeast that rush by the tour bus windows give way to wide-open and incredibly boring landscape, giving Jesse veritably nothing to stare at as the buses spend hours crawling down old, cracked highways until they finally reach their stops in the metropolitan areas of each state. The tour seems to zig-zag up and down, hitting at least one major venue per state due to high fan demand for the band to visit -- from Kentucky to Idaho, everything begins to blend together, the show routine becoming repetitive, something he’s memorized by heart. 

Each show, though, remains different. The band makes occasional changes to their set, surprising fans who come to their concerts expecting to know the entire lineup, and keeping themselves on their own toes musically. No two performances are alike -- from Genji’s energy onstage and his speeches to the crowds to the way the band members interact with one another, they leave every state having given fans a unique and memorable experience. They make their own memories, as well; Genji teaches Lena his trademark backflip and she, in her own time, integrates it into the show routines, and Amélie works with the other three to create a fun routine where, during one of her drum solos, they each take a short turn banging on her kit. Even Hanzo seems to come out of his shell onstage as the tour progresses, moving from his usual stage position and walking around more during concerts, sometimes even taking over lead vocals from Genji for a few song lines. 

Watching the band’s progression as individual musicians and as a whole, Jesse’s excited for what their future holds. Their base of fans seems to increase by the day as more and more people are introduced to their music, and shows sell out rapidly, the buzz surrounding North Wind Rising’s rapid climb to the top of the charts and their ongoing tour only growing larger as the headlines continue. For once, Jesse’s glad he doesn’t have any active accounts on any social media sites -- watching the numbers on the bandmembers’ accounts swell massively, accompanied by occasional backlash and negative comments by those who seem to dislike their music and be jealous of their success, he can’t imagine having _so many_ people tracking his every move online and dissecting each post he makes. Genji, though, seems to lap up the attention, posting more frequently to Twitter about the band’s activities and excitedly showing Jesse conversations on Tinder and Grindr where others recognize him.

Despite how fast tour seems to go, Jesse relishes the moments he gets to spend with Hanzo. Their relationship buds slowly, comfortably; each city they visit brings new experiences to be shared with each other. Between press events, concerts, and driving on separate buses, Jesse feels like he gets next to no time with Hanzo -- simple slices of time in-between everything going on and a few rare days off are all they have. Together, they make do. The time they _are_ able to spend with one another becomes incredibly valuable. The memories, unforgettable. The others take their newfound declaration of boyfriend-dom in stride, which doesn’t surprise Jesse, considering Lena and Amélie have been together for God-knows-how-long, he frequently opens the door to the band’s tour bus to the sight of Genji nakedly stuffed into his bunk with equally-naked people on either side of him, and he’s seen Fareeha making eyes at the lighting technician, Satya.

One of the most irritating lessons they quickly learn together is that tour bus bunks are _not_ ideal for sex -- especially Hanzo’s middle bunk. Even when they manage to snag time alone while the rest of the bandmembers are off doing their own respective things, the moment seems to pass by far too quickly in a mess of awkward limbs, fits of laughter, and Jesse banging his head on the bunk above them at least three times. In the face of adversity comes ingenuity, and Hanzo soon finds other spots on the bus that are _far_ more manageable. 

As the buses roll up to their final tour dates in California, Jesse’s uncertainty about his future spikes. His mind dwells on the _what if_ s -- what if there _isn’t_ a future for him with the band, if they decide, having grown far larger and more successful than imagined, to part ways with him as a guitar technician and find someone more experienced and qualified? What if they don’t immediately begin touring internationally or working on another studio album; will he have to pack his bags and grudgingly go back to New Mexico to lead the same, tedious life he led before? The question that looms above all is one he refuses to dwell upon -- what will happen between he and Hanzo? Jesse dreads thinking about the fact that their romance could, perhaps, be a simple one that will run its course when the tour ends. He’s finally found someone he genuinely connects to -- musically, emotionally. The questions swarm his head, angry and invasive thoughts that weigh down his heart and threaten to overwhelm him the more he considers them.

\- - - 

**Genji** @bettershimada   
we SOLD OUT the hollywood bowl tomorrow night. Holy shit, you guys are the best!!  
**7,319** RETWEETS **18.1K** LIKES  


**Hana★Song** @officialDVA   
@bettershimada see you in LA? ;3  


**Genji** @bettershimada   
@officialDVA ummmm OF COURSE. better bring your A game  


**Hana★Song** @officialDVA   
@bettershimada mario kart?  


**Genji** @bettershimada   
@officialDVA you’re on.  


**Hana★Song** @officialDVA   
@bettershimada can’t wait to kick your ass again!   


\- - -

Los Angeles is one hell of a city.

They arrive at the venue a day early -- the famed Hollywood Bowl, a beautiful amphitheater with a broad, white half-shell that gives the place its moniker. While the others are tired from a long day’s drive and vow to catch up on sleep before setting up for the following day’s show, Lena drags Amélie off to sightsee with her, the two calling up an Uber and leaving the rest of the crew to relax. 

Jesse gratefully takes the short time off that they get and spends the day with Hanzo, the bassist curled comfortably against him in his small bunk, napping soundly as Jesse strokes his hair and silently thanks whatever deity is watching over him in the sky for allowing their paths to cross. The day yawns on and, when evening finally comes, Hanzo awakens and takes Jesse’s hand in his; they scale the tour bus together and sit on the roof, enjoying the cool Californian fall night and looking out at Hollywood hills and the twinkling venue lights, Hanzo’s head resting upon his shoulder.

\- - -

**Alternative Press** @altpress   
@northwindrising  guitarist Lena Oxton hospitalized in L.A. car crash altpress.com/news/entry/nor…  
**4,981** RETWEETS **11.3K** LIKES  


  


  
  
**North Wind Rising guitarist Lena Oxton hospitalized in L.A. car crash**  
  
**November 6 2017, 6:17 AM PST | By S. Sombra**  
  


Just two days before the band’s final tour show at the Hollywood Bowl, North Wind Rising’s guitarist, Lena Oxton, was hospitalized following injuries sustained in a hit-and-run on 3rd Street around 2:30 A.M. Thursday morning. Authorities from the LAPD are currently looking for a black Honda Civic. Oxton was rushed to the CMCLA emergency room, suffering lacerations to the torso and a broken arm. 

Following the accident, North Wind Rising frontman Genji Shimada tweeted, “currently with Lena in the hospital. please keep her in your thoughts. the show WILL go on.”

It is unclear who will take Oxton’s place as the band’s guitarist for their final show.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you all for reading! apologies for the long wait time between chapters lately -- college has been kicking my ass. one chapter to go!  
> desperado is by the eagles and, though it's originally played on piano, i imagined jesse singing it with the acoustic guitar [much like this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWUpkXjR_xw).  
> you can find me other places: [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/starscryy)


	4. stuck on you

**Genji** @bettershimada   
currently with Lena in the hospital. please keep her in your thoughts. the show WILL go on.  
**7,982** RETWEETS **16.1K** LIKES  
  


\- - - 

Early morning sunlight filters through the window, a soft, rosy pink that lights up the room and makes the stark whiteness of everything a bit more bearable. For the fourth or ninth time that morning, Jesse listens to Lena murmur _I’m fine_ to Amélie, who sits beside her on the hospital bed, one hand cupping the guitarist’s face and the other resting just beside Lena’s broken arm, wrapped up in a stiff, neon orange cast -- a product of the car crash she’d been in.

Jesse’s eyes trace Lena’s figure, resting in the hospital bed; she has a few small cuts peppering her cheeks, and beneath the ugly, polka-dotted blue gown, he knows the stitches on her torso are wrapped up in white gauze. Despite having been in a car crash, the woman is chipper as can be, flashing smiles all around and reassuring her friends that she’s all right. 

They’ve all been here since she was brought in, awake beside her the whole night just talking and keeping Lena company. Amélie hasn’t budged from her side at all; her devotion and love for the other woman is something else, Jesse thinks. He smiles and remembers a private moment he’d caught earlier after returning from the first floor vending machine -- Lena, tucked into her blankets and catching a few hours of sound sleep after the morning’s misfortunes, and Amélie, curled up beside her, arms gently resting around Lena’s waist and head tucked into the crook of her neck. 

Genji and Hanzo return from their own venture to the vending machine in an attempt to scrounge a bit of food from the only place that seems to have it. The singer waves at him with a mouth full of Cheez-Its, walking to Lena’s bedside to converse with her, while Hanzo picks idly at a granola bar and takes a seat in one of the chairs beside Jesse.

“How’re you doin’?” Jesse asks. 

Hanzo breaks off a bit of the bar and eats some, wrinkling his nose at the flavor. “Tired,” he murmurs, resting his head against Jesse’s shoulder. “I am just glad Lena is all right.”

“Me, too,” Jesse agrees.

“I talked to the nurse earlier. She should be discharged this afternoon. They will prescribe her painkillers, but ultimately, she said the crash could have been much worse than it was. Lena was fortunate.”

“We all were.”

“Mm,” the other man hums his agreement. “I do not know what any of us would have done, had she..” he trails off.

“Well,” Jesse replies, reaching up to tuck a bit of hair behind one of Hanzo’s ears, “let’s just be happy she’s right as rain. That girl’s a good egg.”

Hanzo opens his mouth to reply, but his words are drowned out by a loud voice.

“Sorry I’m so late. I came as soon as I could!”

A short girl strides into Lena’s hospital room, a cardboard carrying tray holding four steaming Starbucks cups in one hand, a small batch of sunflowers bound together by a rubber band in the other. Dark hair is bound up in a tidy bun on her head, bangs and a few stray strands left down to frame her face, features distorted by worry. She’s wearing (admittedly adorable, Jesse thinks) bright pink pyjama pants with little, white cotton-tailed rabbits in various stages of jumping printed on them and a softer pink sweatshirt, the letters ‘GG EZ’ bolded on the front; despite the fact that she’s obviously come straight from her bed to the hospital at ass o’clock in the morning, she still manages to look as incredibly put-together and effortlessly stylish as the rest of the band. 

The little bunnies on her pants prick at something in his memory -- Genji, lounging on the tour bus couch with a smoked-out spliff in one hand and his phone in the other, baked out of his mind as he lazily scrolls through an album labelled “BLIZZCON” filled with pictures of this exact girl and himself in various places at the convention, drawling on about how _cool_ and _fun_ and _wild_ the time had been. 

“Hey,” Jesse barks, pointing a finger, “you’re--”

“Hana!” Genji exclaims, arms stretched wide. The girl -- Hana Song, Jesse remembers -- sets the tray of Starbucks cups and the flowers down on one of the tables in the room and meets him halfway. Genji envelops her in a bear hug and picks her bodily up from the floor until her feet dangle in the air -- which, for a man as short as he, is not an incredibly impressive feat. Hana giggles and wraps her arms around his neck.

“Missed you, too, Genji,” she says as he sets her back down.

“ _Huh._ You’re younger’n I thought you’d be,” Jesse comments.

Hana fixes him with an amused stare. “And you’re older than I thought _you_ would be.”

“Aw, that ain’t fair. The beard adds a few years.”

“Keep telling yourself that, old man.” Hana turns around to face Lena, stepping up to her bedside, picking the sunflowers up from the table she’d set them momentarily down on. “These are for you,” she says, holding the bunch out. “I thought you could use a bit of cheering up! I also brought hot chocolates.”

She grabs the tray of Starbucks cups and passes one to Lena’s good hand, holding out the rest to the other three band members. “Sorry,” Hana says to Jesse, “I would’ve gotten you one, but I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“You can share mine,” Hanzo murmurs, gracefully taking one of the cups. Jesse smiles at him and nods.

“Aww,” Lena coos, smiling brightly. “You’re always so sweet t’me, love. Just seeing you cheers me up enough!” 

“How are you feeling?” Hana asks. She prods the neon orange menace of a cast engulfing Lena’s arm, already half-covered in black Sharpie doodles (courtesy of Genji) and names, as per typical cast tradition. Lena wiggles her fingers that poke out of the cast’s end and offers a chipper shrug.

“Not too shabby, all things considered!” she replies. “Tad bit sore, but that’s t’be expected, I guess. Nurse said they need to run a few last tests ‘n give me some doctor-y stuff so I can patch up my cuts and bumps on my own, but I’ll be discharged this afternoon. Just in time for the show!”

“Ooh, you and I can watch from the sidestage, then.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Lena chirps. “What brings you to town, anyway? Thought you’d be back in Korea.”

“BlizzCon is this weekend,” Hana replies. Jesse can see that she’s practically bouncing in giddiness. “I’m here for the StarCraft world championships.”

“Gonna keep your world champ title again?”

“You know it!” Hana says, grin dancing upon her lips. The conversation devolves into idle catch-up talk about the band, Hana’s professional career, and how things have been between the two of them; Genji and Amélie jump in, and the four discuss plans to hang out after the final show of the tour is over and BlizzCon has finished up.

Jesse leans against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks down at Hanzo. “How’s your brother know her, anyway?” he asks, jerking a thumb in Hana’s direction.

“Ah,” Hanzo replies, nodding solemnly. “They met through an online game, several years ago. World of Warcraft, I believe; he used to be an avid player. They’ve kept in contact ever since, and he sees her every year at BlizzCon. He introduced her to us -- she and Lena became immediate friends, of course, and Amélie is quite fond of her. She’s a sweet girl.”

“Huh. That’s pretty interestin’.” Jesse’s gaze flits to Hana, watching the young girl animatedly talk to her friends. “Seems kinda.. young t’be a world champion already, don’t she?”

Hanzo shrugs. “She is great at the game. It does not surprise me that she holds the title.”

As if she knows she’s being discussed, Hana turns around, a hand on her hip. “Not to, like, _butt in_ on band business or anything, but have you guys talked about the elephant in the room yet or what?”

“‘Scuse me?” Jesse asks, brow quirked.

“Y’know. Who is gonna play for Lena? There’s no way she can play guitar with a broken arm.”

Mixed glances are cast about the room, eyes drifting from person to person; Jesse is keenly aware of Genji’s gaze on him. He avoids looking at the singer, instead staring at the speckled grey linoleum of the hospital room floor.

“We have not,” Hanzo admits, voice splitting the silence that has settled around the room. “Our priority was Lena’s health and safety. Though, we _do_ need to discuss what will happen tonight.”

“Well, I’m feelin’ all right, now,” Lena states. “But she’s right, I can’t play with my arm all busted up like this. Can barely wiggle my fingers in this cast.”

Amélie glances at Genji. “You can fill in for her, can you not?” she asks.

“Um.” Genji scratches the back of his head sheepishly and shrugs. “My playing is _okay_. I have not picked up a guitar seriously in a while.. I know the chords to the songs on our set, but me playing _and_ singing would completely throw off the dynamic and our performance.”

Hanzo nods his head in agreement. “We are a four-man group, each with their own jobs; Genji’s is to be the main entertainer. Putting a guitar in his hands would take away from his individual performance, and would severely limit him. If it were a mid-tour show, it might work -- but this is our last show of the tour, and we are playing at a large venue. Fans will be expecting something good; we cannot deliver sub-par.”

“Well, we haven’t got much choice, have we?” Lena asks, the corners of her mouth tugged down in a frown. “It’ll be hard to find someone t’fill in on such short notice. Genji might be our only option.” She taps her chin in thought, eyes raised to the ceiling. “Maybe Hanzo could fill in? We could sacrifice the bassline?”

“Out of the question,” Amélie states firmly. “Our songs are dependent on a bassline. My drums cannot make up for the loss of one, and taking away the bass would leave the music too hollow.”

Lena sits back in her bed with a soft _hm_ , carding a hand through her messy hair. “Then we don’t have anyone?”

“We have someone.”

All eyes fly to Genji. The singer stares at Jesse, continuing, “We have someone who knows all of the songs, all of the chords, every part of our stage routine, and the ins and outs of Lena’s guitars. The answer is standing right here.” 

Jesse feels his face heat up as gazes are turned on him. “Me?” he asks, feeling a bit of panic bubble in his stomach. “No way. Uh-uh. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Genji presses, brows knit. “It is not a matter of ability -- we already know that you are a talented musician. And I’m sure most fans will like you, as long as you keep up Lena’s usual energy. What’s wrong?”

“Look, I just.” Jesse takes a deep breath and shakes his head firmly. He doesn’t enjoy talking at length about his fears, so he settles for the easy version, “I ain’t good onstage. Never have been. I’ll mess it all up for y’all, and it’s the last show.. I’m sure you got someone on speed dial, or somethin’? Right? A friend or somethin’ from another band, jus’ in case?”

The others shake their heads. “We never could have anticipated something like this happening,” Hanzo says. He takes one of Jesse’s hands in his own, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Please. You are our only hope.”

“Do it for the injured girl?” Lena offers, raising her broken arm.

Jesse considers it; he _does_ know every song, every minute detail of their set and performance. He’s watched every concert from the wings, studied each member of the band -- their habits, how they like to utilize the space on the stage, their interactions with one another and the fans. For four months, this has been his life. Their pleading gazes wear him down, and everything the band has done for him flits through his mind. Good memories. Bad memories. Each day he’s spent with Hanzo. They’ve become like a secondhand family to him, a band of unconditional friends who have shared with him some of the best moments he’s known in his life; if not for them, he would be stuck rotting in some shithole bar in New Mexico, doing soundcheck and guitar tech for no-name bands who play for tips and dream of making a break. This has been _his_ break, because of them. _One show_ , his mind states. One show, two hours of getting up onstage and playing guitar. A way of thanking these four for everything they’ve shared with him and everything they’ve done for him, the new perspective they've given him on life.

 _Hell,_ he thinks, _I’m pretty sure I know those guitars better’n I know my own dick at this point, anyway. I can do this_.

A small part of his mind says _no, you can’t_ ; he pushes it away, suffocates and silences it for the time being.

“All right, all right. No need t’go all Princess Leia on me,” he says to Hanzo. “I’ll do it.” The other man lets out a breath of relief, and Jesse can see smiles break out around the room.

“Perfect!” Lena chirps and waves her gaudy cast happily as if it’s a flag. 

“There is one issue, though,” Genji comments, giving Jesse a pointed once-over. 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Hana pipes up, staring at Genji with a scheming face.

He meets her gaze, lips curling in a devious grin, scheming face matching hers. 

“Shopping?” he asks.

“Shopping,” she affirms. 

“Mm,” Amélie hums in agreement, lips pursed. “His clothing is not suitable. A trip to the mall is in order. But..” she trails off, frowning as she looks at Lena. 

“Look, you all go out ‘n help him. I’ll wait t’get discharged here and meet up with you later.” Lena beams, cheeks dimpling as she smiles. “Everything’ll be fine, I’m sure of it! I’ll text Fareeha, she’ll take good care of me ‘n make sure I get out all right.”

“I do not want to leave you here alone,” Amélie protests.

“He needs _your_ expertise most of all, love,” Lena replies. “ _Ple-e-ease?_ For me?” She presses a kiss to Amélie’s cheek and the drummer sighs exasperatedly, but nods her head. 

“All right. Be careful, though. And text me when you are discharged.”

“‘Course I will! Now, go on, all of you. Make that cowboy into a rockstar.”

\- - -

“Listen, I ain’t sure this is such a good idea,” Jesse huffs, scratching the scruff on his chin as he considers the tall, menacing mall entrance before him.

“You need it,” Hana replies airily, taking her sunglasses off and hooking them in the neck of her shirt.

“I know the clothes I got ain’t the most fashionable, but I’m sure they’ll do jus’ fine since we’re in a pinch, here.”

His statement is met with tandem derisive snorts from Amélie and Hanzo. “Just follow and allow us to do the work, _chérie_ ,” Amelie replies. “This band has an image to maintain; we cannot just let you waltz onto the stage wearing country plaid and a cowboy hat as if it is the floor of some.. line-dancing bar for inbreds. You will wear the proper clothing, and you will look like a true rockstar once you do. We promise you.”

“I am not fond of the getup I have to wear onstage, but they are right,” Hanzo adds. “Fans expect a certain standard from us. If you are not comfortable with the things any of us choose, we can compromise.”

“Seems t’me like y’all wear mostly black. What if I just wear, uh..” Jesse trails off, eyes to the sky in thought, “black plaid ‘n a black hat?”

He’s met with withering stares and takes that as a firm _no_ from all around.

They usher him into the mall, Hana and Genji taking the lead, chattering amicably amongst themselves with Amélie following coolly behind, phone in hand, no doubt checking in on Lena and scrolling through her Twitter feed. Jesse falls in step with Hanzo, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Their shoulders bump comfortably; from the corner of his eye, he can see the shadow of a smile upon Hanzo’s lips at the odd domesticity.

Genji veers them to H&M, and Jesse immediately feels out of place as they cross the threshold -- the store is obviously meant for teens and twenty-somethings, not scruffy men in their early thirties. Their men's’ section is pitifully small, but Genji scours the racks with the practiced eye of one who has shopped here many a time, expert fingers pulling out pairs of pants in various dark shades that look _far_ too small.

He hands at least seven pairs to Jesse and nods at the fitting rooms. “Try these on and see if any of them work.”

Skeptically, Jesse looks through the pile of pants hung over one arm. “Uh. Ain’t most’a these the exact same?”

Genji raises a sculpted brow, the disbelief on his face echoed by Hana and Amélie. “Of course not. They are all different shades of black.”

“They just look plain ol’ black t’me.”

Amélie huffs and pulls two pairs from the pile slung over his arm, holding them up next to each other. “These two are completely different shades of black. How can you not see that?”

Jesse squints, blinks, and squints a bit more. “Pretty sure they’re both the same.”

“You are hopeless,” she bemoans, rolling her eyes to emphasize the exaggerated drama of the situation. 

“It would be best if you go try them on before she begins her lecture on shades of black,” Hanzo murmurs beside his ear. Jesse takes the chance and darts away from the others toward the fitting rooms.

When he returns, the pile of pants has been winnowed down to a close choice between two pairs, both of which feel _incredibly_ too tight on him yet somehow, after a good amount of jumping, wiggling, and cursing, managed to fit on. Genji and Hana _hmm_ and choose one of the pairs; according to Amélie, the chosen pants are _ink_ black, as opposed to the _coal_ black of the discarded pair.

With a pair of pants secured, they next bring Jesse to Guess -- a store he’s familiar with, but has never shopped at himself. The price tag has always been a bit too high for him. Genji ignores the clothing and goes straight for the shoe racks, asking Jesse his foot size and promptly going to town; he pulls several pairs of combat boots off it and shares a quick bout of conversation with one of the store assistants, who comes back with arms full of boxes that hold even _more_ pairs. Jesse can’t stifle the groan that escapes his lips, and Hanzo rubs a sympathetic hand in circles over his back, the look on his face clearly stating _I know how you feel_. He wonders how many times Genji has dragged Hanzo off to various malls and picked out entire outfits for him to wear onstage; Hanzo doesn’t seem like he would be too keen to do such things on his own. Jesse’s seen his offstage wardrobe, and it’s far more toned-down than anything the others in the band -- _especially_ Genji -- wear.

After trying on nearly every pair, Jesse picks out some comfortable shoes that are mildly reminiscent of his familiar cowboy boots; with a high-ankle rise and synthetic leather finish, the boots look surprisingly classy. He likes them.

Boots secured, they continue to drag him around the mall for several hours. Jesse ends up with a new, silver-buckled belt and a leather bracelet, and spends the rest of the time doggedly following Genji, Hana, and Amélie around other stores as they pick out things for themselves, as well. A good amount of time is spent at GameStop, where Hana and Hanzo heatedly discuss the newest Pokémon game while Genji scours the shelves for games to bring back on the tour bus and Amélie disinterestedly pokes at the foam floating on top of her Starbucks with a wooden stirring stick and waits for them to finish. 

They eat lunch, stop by a few more clothing stores, and usher him to their final destination of the shopping trip.

“There ain’t no way I’m goin’ in there,” Jesse says resolutely, staring at the store with a lip curled in disgust. “Absolutely not.”

“What? Is there something wrong with it?” Amélie counters, looking at him with a mildly amused expression on her face.

“Just ‘bout everythin’ is wrong with it! Who in their right mind would shop in there?”

Genji, Hana, and Amélie stare at him, faces deadpan, while Hanzo stifles a laugh in the crook of his elbow and expertly disguises it as a cough. _Right_ , Jesse thinks. _’Course they all shop there._

Despite his protests, he ends up in Hot Topic, staring at a monumental wall of band tees and feeling distinctly out of place.

“See anything you like?” Genji chirps, hands on his hips as he examines the shirts alongside Jesse. 

“A few, I s’pose. You sure I can wear another band’s shirt onstage?”

“Plenty of bands do this. Most of them wear classic rock shirts.”

“Hm.” Jesse taps his chin, eyes flitting from design to design -- Green Day, Nirvana, Sublime, and more. He spots a Metallica shirt and shrugs it off; he’s never been much of a fan of their music, anyway. Row by row, he considers each band and shirt, until, finally, he finds the perfect one: a black Guns ‘n Roses shirt, the design vintage and oddly pleasing to him.

“That’s the one,” he affirms, pointing it out to Genji who nods sagely.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Genji replies, obviously familiar with the band.

They ring up the shirt along with a few other trinkets Genji had picked up around the store; the singer seems a bit sad as he holds out his card to the cashier, no doubt because Hanzo had denied him multiple times when he attempted to sneak a box of lime green hair dye into their pile of things to purchase, citing an apparent dark time in the band’s history when Genji had sported hair of that exact color. Jesse is utterly unsurprised -- it seems like the exact sort of thing Genji would do. 

Purchase in hand, Jesse supposes he’d consider it a successful shopping trip. He has an outfit that he’s comfortable enough with to wear onstage, and the others picked up things they’d been needing or wanting for a while, as well. Still the designated pack mule, his arms are weighed down by a multitude of bags from various stores -- H&M, Guess, and Hot Topic bags contain the clothing he will wear, while others from GameStop, the comic store that Genji had found tucked away in a corner on the first floor, and a curious bag that Amélie had picked up from Sephora hold the purchases of the other bandmembers. After one last pit-stop at the food court to grab lunch, they finally, much to Jesse’s delight, leave the mall behind.

As he sets the bags down in the trunk of their Uber, he spots Genji and Hana posing with each other, matching cups filled with green and pink bubble tea in their hands; Hana holds a hand up to her face with fingers in a peace sign, a bright smile upon her lips and one eye closed in a wink, while Genji wears a matching smile and uses his free hand to take a selfie of them together. Jesse can’t help smiling at how close the two are as friends; it’s endearing and rather pure.

The five of them climb into the Uber and, with one last look at the mall, head back to the concert venue to prep for the night’s show.

\- - -

**Genji** @bettershimada   
boba and the best https://t.co/3lkEn47n  
**3,492** RETWEETS **11.7K** LIKES  
  


**Hana★Song** @officialDVA   
@bettershimada finally recognizing my greatness  


**Genji** @bettershimada   
@officialDVA you’re always great!!  


**Hana★Song** @officialDVA   
@bettershimada :3  


\- - -

“Hold still,” Genji hisses, gripping Jesse’s chin between his thumb and forefinger to make him stop jerking his head around. Jesse groans and does his best to oblige, but he can’t stop himself from blinking rapidly as the black pencil is lowered to his waterline. he squints and stares at Genji, who hovers above him with his brows knit in concentration and tongue darting from the corner of his mouth.

“You sure I gotta do this?” Jesse asks.

“Yes,” Genji asserts. “I will make you look great, do not worry.”

“I think he looks quite fine already,” Hanzo comments from behind Genji, arms folded over his chest as he watches the scene.

“Aw, darlin’ --” Jesse starts, but Genji cuts him off by shoving a finger against his lips and _shh_ -ing him. Carefully, the singer draws the eyeliner back and forth, darkening Jesse’s waterline with an expert hand. When he’s finally done, he steps back and pulls out his phone, flipping it to the front camera so Jesse can look as his handiwork.

“Christ on a crutch, I look like fuckin’ Jack Sparrow or somethin’,” Jesse laments. He turns his head from side to side and looks at the black liner around his eyes.

“You look _perfect_ ,” Genji huffs. 

“Y’know, Hanzo don’t gotta wear makeup. Why me?”

“I told you to say no to him,” Hanzo comments amusedly.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jesse flaps a dismissive hand and stands, running a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. All things considered, he doesn’t dislike the liner _too much_ ; it’s a one-time thing for the show, and he does like the way it adds to his current mysterious rockstar getup. _Carpe fuckin’ diem, right_? he thinks.

He pulls his hair back in a messy ponytail and looks down at his outfit again. It’s weird, seeing himself in clothing like this again -- it’s an outfit he would’ve worn back when he was still riding around with Deadlock, a kid with no direction in life who thought he was the hottest shit for being in a gang. Jesse scrunches his nose at the memory and tugs at the hem of his shirt. 

Beside him, Genji and Hanzo begin to bicker with one another, English quickly devolving into rapid Japanese. Jesse lets out a huff of laughter and leaves them to their conversation, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking around to the front of the venue. Only a few others are on the main stage -- Amélie, hauling in the pieces of her drumkit along with Mei and a few other roadies, and Fareeha, checking the acoustics. He looks out over rows and rows of empty seats that rise up the hillside like a black sea, the midday sun shining down upon them. Jesse can feel his throat tighten as he imagines those seats filled with thousands of fans; fans that will stare, yell, judge. They’ll take pictures. Tweet. Post YouTube videos that will immortalize any fuck-ups he has onstage. Band news outlets will ask questions, wonder who he is; he’ll have to answer them. 

His fingers dig into his palms, nervous sweat beginning to slick them, gaze frozen on those rows of seats at this massive venue. _I can’t do this_ , he thinks.

\- - -

**lena oxton** @TRACER   
thanks to everyone for your well-wishes and tweets! i’m feeling great!  
**1,873** RETWEETS **6.2K** LIKES

**lena oxton** @TRACER   
@TRACER we have a surprise guest taking over for me tonight!! enjoy ;)   


\- - -

In his bunk on the empty roadie tour bus, away from the pre-show bustle on the stage and the line of waiting fans already wrapped around the venue and the other band members, Jesse finds solace. He finds the quiet he’s been needing all day, wrapped up in his blankets, face pressed into his pillow and eyes screwed shut. The panic that has been building in his stomach and chest all day, since he told the others he would fill in for Lena, threatens to consume him; every time he thinks he’ll be all right, thinks he can stand up and leave behind the security offered by the quiet bus and the familiar bunk and go back to face the expectations of those he’ll be playing with and those he’ll be playing for, the panic stifles him once more. Jesse listens to his own heavy breathing and the blood pounding in his ears and thinks about the fans -- _the fans_ , how many of them there will be, how disappointed they’ll seem when Lena isn’t up on stage and _he_ is instead.

They’ll stare. They’ll size him up, take pictures; it’s their right to. Jesse wrinkles his nose and thinks for the fifth or sixtieth time about how unfit he is for this, how he wants nothing more than to be a simple guitar tech right now, enjoying the music from the wings of the stage, not having to live up to the expectations of thousands of people who paid good money and loyally follow the band.

 _God,_ he thinks, groaning into his pillow, _why do I have t’feel so shitty?_

He hears the loud creak of the screen door opening and the heavy thud of boots walking up the stairs and into the bus. Jesse tugs his blankets tighter around himself, as if he can cocoon out the world and hide from everyone and everything; _prob’ly Fareeha_ , he thinks, come to fish him out and drag him back to stage.

The footsteps walk down the row of roadie bunks and stop at his. After a quiet moment, the mattress dips as weight settles upon it, and a gentle hand attempts to pry the blankets away from them. _Hanzo_ , he thinks; he can smell autumnal cologne and washed hair, a subtle hint of cigarette smoke beneath it all. Warmth. Comfort. Familiarity, over all. Jesse allows the blankets to slip from his white-knuckled grip and be drawn back, rolling over a bit to face Hanzo. The other man softly brushes Jesse’s hair back and tucks a few stray strands behind his ear, dipping his head in greeting. He lifts up the covers and slides beneath them, a heavy hand slid around Jesse’s waist, pulling him close and tangling their legs together, head resting on the pillow. Hanzo’s face is so close, their noses almost brush. He stares at Jesse with knowing eyes, and waits -- not speaking, not moving, simply breathing and allowing Jesse to decide if and when he wants to speak about what bothers him.

Several moments of comfortable silence pass, Hanzo’s presence a warm comfort, like a lifebuoy drawing Jesse from the deep waters of his fears and anxieties, bringing him back to shore. 

“Sorry,” Jesse finally mumbles. He looks past Hanzo, staring at the empty, rumpled bunk across from his. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Hanzo replies. His hand comes up to cup Jesse’s cheek, the thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “This is difficult for you. I was terrified the first time I went up on stage, as well.” A pause. “If you truly do not wish to do this, we will not force you to.”

Jesse lets out a huff of laughter. “No way you’ll find another person t’fill in on guitar this close t’showtime. Naw,” he drawls, shaking his head softly against the pillow, “I ain’t gonna flake out now.”

“You doing this means a great deal to all of us. Especially me.”

“Aw, look at you, gettin’ all sentimental.” Jesse brings his hands up and lets them ball in the dark material of Hanzo’s tanktop, attempting to calm the latent nerves that still make them tremble a bit. “I jus’ -- I always wanted t’be in a band. Play onstage, do exactly _this_. But I got up there once, in front’a a crowd.. not even a big one. Couldn’t’a been more than fifty people. I choked. Couldn’t do it. My guitar teacher -- Gabe, saint that he was -- had t’take my place, ‘n I had to watch from the sides. Hell,” Jesse exhales, thinking about the memory, “he did better’n I ever could’ve.”

Hanzo nods in quiet understanding. “Some people are not born for the stage,” he murmurs. “I still wonder where Genji finds his confidence. He simply thrives off being around others, making them laugh and smile; he is utterly comfortable being the center of attention. A natural in the spotlight. People like you and I? We will never be that way. It is simply not in our nature.”

“You gotta be kiddin’ me. Every time I see you up on that stage with your tight fuckin’ pants and that guitar, it seems like you were born t’be up there.”

“Do you know how long I have been playing music with my brother?” Hanzo asks. Jesse shakes his head, a brow raised. “Years,” the bassist answers. “I have had _years_ to perfect my stage persona. I do what I know the crowds want me to because I must, but I’m still not entirely comfortable with it. I doubt I ever will be.”

Jesse lets out a breath. “I didn’t know y’felt that way,” he says.

“Because I am good at hiding it. Fake it ‘til you make it, as you would say,” Hanzo replies, letting out a soft laugh tinged with bitterness. The hand that rests on Jesse’s cheek slips down to his chin, tilting it down so he can edge in and press a chaste kiss to the other man’s lips. “Do you understand what I am saying, though? You do not have to be comfortable with being onstage, and I doubt you ever will be. But you simply have to pretend you are fine; the fans will not be able to tell the difference.”

“You sound sure’a that, but this is gonna be my first time on a stage playin’ for real since that say. ‘S gonna be a real rude awakening, and I’m _real_ afraid I’ll fuck it up for y’all,” Jesse snorts.

“During every performance, I focus on one thing and ignore all other distractions. I care only for the music I play -- nothing else matters to me. I go through the motions and I pretend to be someone I am not to appease the fans, but the music belongs to _me_.” Hanzo stares at him, a fierce glint to his gaze. “I know you can do this, Jesse. You must find your focal point, the one thing that will keep you afloat. Do not think about the fans or the venue or anything else. Let that one thing be your guide.”

“Jesus,” Jesse huffs, the edges of his eyes crowfooted as he smiles. “You sure know how to give one hell of a pep-talk.”

Hanzo snorts. “Believe me, I have given this talk to myself enough times. It feels surprisingly refreshing to give it to someone else.”

“‘Least I’ll have you up there with me, backin’ me up.”

“The others, as well. They believe in you just as much as I.”

“Y’know, Hanzo,” Jesse mutters, “sometimes I worry you’re too good for me.”

Hanzo’s lips press together in a thin smile. He pats Jesse’s waist and folds the covers back, sliding out of the cramped bunk and standing. “If you are ready to go, we should begin soundcheck soon.”

Jesse nods and stands as well, dogging Hanzo’s heels as they exit the bus. 

_Find my focal point_ , he thinks, the bassist’s words echoing in his mind.

\- - -

**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
The venue is packed!!  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
Still wish I’d gotten pit tickets but they sold out in like 2.5 seconds lol… Still, I got nice seats so Im happy :)  


**steve** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@hanzosbiceps have a good time!! They were so great when i saw them  


**steve** @boyfrombrooklyn  
@hanzosbiceps i bet the last show is going to fucking Rock  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
@boyfrombrooklyn Thanks!  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
Guess they’re keeping lena’s replacement a secret til the literal last minute haha  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
I hope she still comes on though!!   


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
OMG THE LIGHTS DIMMED!!!! ITS STARTING!!!  


\- - -

“Two minutes,” one of the techs calls.

The stage goes dark; beyond it, the amphitheater, packed with fans, seems to roar with excitement the moment the lights are flicked off. Jesse peeks his head out around the barrier that keeps him hidden in the sidestage and sees heads and bodies moving, like a massive, amorphous shape illuminated only by phone screens and camera flashes in the shadows. He takes a breath and holds it in his lungs for a moment, steeling himself, thinking about the others -- Genji, set to run onstage first, standing a few feet away from him, microphone in hand and eyes closed in thought. Amélie and Hanzo on the other side of the stage, to come in after. And, lastly, himself. Jesse feels the heavy weight of the guitar slung over his shoulder by its strap and wraps a hand around the instrument’s neck, holding it as if it’s a lifeline. 

“Hey. Do you have a sec?”

Despite the darkness, he can still just make out Hana’s face, peering up at him. She offers a small smile, and he nods, head cocked to the side wondering what she could want.

“Yeah. What d’ya need?”

“I just,” she pauses, then continues, “I heard that you’re kind of nervous.”

He snorts. Understatement of the century.

“When I played at the world championships for the first time, I was _so_ scared inside. It was a huge arena filled with people, plus it was broadcast live.. But I got over it.” She nods at him. “I guess.. what I’m trying to say is, I know how you feel, and you’re gonna do great.”

Jesse grins down at Hana. She’s wise for someone so young, he thinks; behind her bluster and public persona is just a normal, teenaged girl. It’s incredible that she’s been in the world’s eye for so long -- just a kid. “Thanks,” he replies, reaching down to ruffle her hair and receiving an indignant yelp in return as she bats away his hand. “You’re a good kid. Glad I got someone like you believin’ in me.”

“You messed up my hair,” she barks, but he can hear the laughter lacing her words. Above the roar of the crowd, he hears the tech call “thirty seconds,” and Jesse gives Hana one last smile. The girl waves at him and gives him a thumbs up and a grin in return, and wraps her arms around Genji in an encouraging hug, seeing the both of them off.

“It’s time!” the tech calls. The stage lights flick on, and Genji trots out, the crowd screaming in excitement. Amélie and Hanzo come out from the other side, drumsticks and bass in their respective hands, and Jesse, finally, runs onstage.

He’s nearly floored, seeing so many people in the audience. It’s incredible and terrifying and Jesse thinks he might need an AED for a moment, but he regains composure as Hanzo starts the bassline for the opening song; he puts his fingers to the strings and plays out the familiar chords he knows, joined by Amélie’s drumming and Genji’s vocals. 

Mentally, Jesse grasps for the focal point Hanzo had urged him to find. He attempts to focus on the music, the feeling of his fingers dancing upon the guitar, the sound he plays emitting from the amp and being carried out across the amphitheater by loudspeakers, joined in time by the other bandmembers’ instruments. For a moment, it seems to work, and a bit of calm overtakes him; but then the cries of the fans slam him back to the present reality, and it’s all he can do to stop his fingers from fumbling and fucking up the song. Jesse takes a breath, struts around his side of the stage a bit, and thinks again.

He looks up at Hanzo, and finds the other man staring back at him from across the stage. Jesse smiles softly; the bassist nods at him as if to say, _you can do this_. Then, at once, the calm washes over him again. Jesse feels his heart slow, no longer pounding in his throat. His fingers pluck at the guitar’s strings, smooth and light, not weighted down by shaking nervousness. Jesse realizes he’s found his focal point.

 _Hanzo,_ he thinks.

The cries of the crowd are lessened, becoming background noise to the music they play onstage. He lets himself look out before him and stare into the faces of fans that are close to the stage in the pit, realizing that they’re simply enjoying the music as much as he is; he sees no judgement. Just excitement. Jesse grasps at memories in his mind -- singing with Hanzo in Atlanta, on a rooftop, stifled by the late summer nighttime heat and humidity. Surfing in Florida, sitting upon their boards as the waves slowly bob up and down beneath them and rain patters upon the ocean surface, breaking the water and falling in ripples that sound like drumbeats. Hanzo’s head upon his shoulder, the soft twang of an acoustic guitar echoing in the bus and the words of Desperado upon his lips as he sings the other man to sleep. Exasperated glances and soft laughter during soundchecks in response to Jesse’s antics; catching small bouts of sleep together in the cramped tour bus bunks, legs and arms tangled; finding solace. Together. 

Jesse focuses on the thought of Hanzo, and everything seems less overwhelming. He’s not nervous when Genji introduces him to the crowd as the band’s guitar tech and Lena’s fill-in for this show, and he embraces the cheering and the happiness that seems to engulf the crowd. They aren’t angry, as he thought they might be; the fans are simply having _fun_.

The rest of the show seems to pass by in a blur. Jesse plays each song from memory, hours and hours of tuning Lena’s guitars and listening to her make music finally coming to fruition. He laughs when Genji comes up during a song and slings an arm around his neck for a few moments, bringing their heads together and swaying from side-to-side. He takes Lena’s place beside Amélie and the drummer allows him to tap a bit on her drumkit, snorting and rolling her eyes fondly at his admittedly terrible rhythm on the skins. During several songs, he makes his way across the stage to Hanzo, playing back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder, and simply standing beside the bassist as they both play their guitars in tandem. Jesse embraces the cheers of the fans and listens to them sing every lyric of every song along with Genji, amazed by their devotion to and love for North Wind Rising.

There’s a lull in the music before they play the final song, and Genji takes the mic again to say a few parting words. He’s breathless, shirtless, and sweating profusely from his acrobatics around the stage, but there’s an unfaltering smile on his lips that reaches his eyes, genuinely happy. 

“We have one last song for you guys, but before we play it, I’d like to invite a few people onto the stage!” he cries, and the crowd hums with excitement. Genji waves a hand in invitation and two people run out -- Lena and Hana.

Seeing Lena, the fans go wild, and she greets them with a wave of her orange cast and an excited fistpump. Hana waves as well, making a heart with her fingers and grinning at the crowd -- most of whom don’t know her, Jesse would guess, but are excited nonetheless. Lena comes to stand beside him for a moment and bumps Jesse’s shoulder fondly, smiling at him and whispering _great job, love._ She darts across the stage to be beside Amélie at her drumkit as Hanzo starts the opening chords of the final song.

Jesse clutches his guitar pick between his fingers and plays his heart out; he pours his repressed anxieties and anger at his own shortcomings in life into the music, and allows himself to simply forget about them for one last song. Glancing across the stage, he sees Genji and Hana singing together into the microphone, Lena dancing beside Amélie with a wild smile upon her lips, and Hanzo, looking back at him once more. Jesse grins, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes. The song becomes his world for a few short minutes, his first and last hurrah onstage for North Wind Rising. Everything he’s wanted but has been too scared to try.

Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over; the fans are cheering them off, Genji and Hana are hugging alongside Lena and Amélie. Jesse crosses the stage and wraps Hanzo up on a hug, their sweat-slicked arms and necks rubbing against each other. He brushes Hanzo’s hair back from his face and laughs, looking down at the man who carried him through the show.

“That was great,” Jesse says, eyes twinkling.

“ _You_ were great,” Hanzo replies.

\- - -

**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
https://t.co/4nvEn42r Souncheck guy filled in for lena and he was so good!!   


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
https://t.co/5ghJ2e1 :’) Lena came out at the end though with one of genji’s friends   


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
https://t.co/2naK8erl Everyone hugging after the final song!   


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps THOSE PICS ARE SO CUTE!! SOUNDCHECK GUY COMIN THRU   


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps Omg he looks so different.. out of the plaid and into the tight jeans  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
@traceroxtons I know!! I like the eyeliner so much lol  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps lena is so cute.. look at the little dinosaur someone drew on her cast omg  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps and hanzo hugging soundcheck guy that’s adorable  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps did they say soundcheck guy’s name? i feel like we can’t call him soundcheck guy anymore  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
@traceroxtons his name is Jesse! he’s the guitar tech, and he was honestly so amazing  


**lena ily!!** @traceroxtons  
@hanzosbiceps jesse.. i love him so much i hope he stays with the band  


**hanzo is art** @hanzosbiceps  
@traceroxtons Me too :D   


\- - - 

A nice stack of five dollar bills has been growing in front of Jesse for the past half hour. He contentedly sips his beer and eyes the fat cash, his winnings so far from the betting pool the band and other roadies have going. They’re all squashed into the tour bus and circled around the couch where Genji and Hana sit, controllers in hand, playing Mario Kart with some of the most aggressive looks Jesse has ever seen on their faces; a steady beat plays from the speakers and the door of the bus is propped open, the post-show party overflowing outside the bus, liquor and easy smiles flowing.

“This one’s just for you,” Hana chirps in a sing-song voice, smashing a finger down on one of the controller’s buttons to release a blue shell that flies directly to Genji. His car spins out of control, a dizzied Yoshi falling to fifth place as other cars, including Hana’s pink Princess Peach racer, passing him by. 

Genji curses under his breath and attempts to regain the lead he’d momentarily held. A groan echoes around the room, but Jesse simply grins -- the others have stupidly placed repeated bets on Genji, assuming he’d come out on top and underestimating Hana’s skill at Mario Kart. As she wins for the third time, cash passes between hands and several more bills are handed to Jesse, who takes them all with a shit-eating grin.

“Can’t you win for once?” Lena laments, slumping back in her chair and nursing a beer sadly. “You always seem t’beat us!”

“I am doing my best!” Genji huffs. “She’s too good.” He sets aside his controller and quickly downs a can of PBR, crushing it in his fist. Hana simply snorts at his attempted intimidation technique and chooses the next racetrack -- Rainbow Road.

“Anyone else gonna bet against me?” Jesse asks, arms crossed smugly over his chest. The others shoot him exasperated looks and shake their heads, unwilling to put any more money down on Genji lest he fail once more. Jesse snorts and sips his beer, settling back in his chair to watch the final showdown between the two gamers; a hand shakes his shoulder, and he looks behind himself, startled. Hanzo looks down at him.

“Come with me,” Hanzo murmurs, nodding his head toward the back of the bus. Jesse sets his beer down on the floor and stands, rolling his tired shoulders and following.

Hanzo leads him to a quieter space, sandwiched between the bathroom door and a miscellaneous closet. The throng of people hasn’t pushed back here, too focused on the video game and the party going on outside to care much for the small area. Hanzo’s body presses against him and Jesse lets his arms slide comfortably around the smaller man’s waist, hands resting on the curve of his ass.

“We did not get to talk much after the show,” Hanzo murmurs, his words a hot breath against the skin on Jesse’s neck; Jesse nods and tightens his arms, bringing the bassist’s body flush against his, back pressed to the wall. 

“You wanna _talk_ right now?” Jesse murmurs, voice low and grin lazy upon his face. “Or you wanna do somethin’ else?”

Hanzo’s answer comes in the form of lips pressed against his neck, sucking a mark there, fingertips dipping teasingly beneath the waistband of Jesse’s pants. Jesse slides a thigh between Hanzo’s legs and clutches the other man’s ass tighter, giving it a firm squeeze and eliciting a moan from Hanzo. He leans down and brings their lips together in a heady kiss, Hanzo’s tongue tracing his bottom lip and slipping inside his mouth just as his hand works the buckle on his belt open and squeezes Jesse through his briefs.

Jesse moves to do the same to Hanzo, but he freezes as a cry of, “Oh my god!” echoes around the bus. Hanzo stops in his tracks and withdraws his hand, parting from Jesse and standing back to stare owlishly at the source of the sound.

The entire party seems frozen; beers are clutched in hands, the game controllers are discarded, and everyone looks to Genji, who brandishes his glowing phone in the air like a beacon. The singer smiles brightly, other fist raising to pump the air excitedly. 

“Our manager just sent me an email! They’ve cleared us for another tour -- we’re going to Europe!” he cries. A cheer sounds amongst the partygoers; roadies hug, excited that they’ll still be in the job _and_ that they’ll be travelling to Europe. Jesse sees Zarya wrap Mei up in a bear hug, lifting the smaller girl from the ground like she weighs nothing. Fareeha chatters excitedly with Satya, who stands beside her, arms crossed over her chest and a prim smile upon her lips. Lena’s lips are pressed to Amélie’s in a grinning kiss, and Hana brings Genji down for a friendly hug, her grin matching his.

Hanzo’s lips press in a thin smile, and he looks up at Jesse, eyes bright. 

“Europe,” he murmurs, nodding solemnly. “I think it will be enjoyable, touring there. Will you come?”

Jesse snorts, thinking about his other option -- leaving the band and going back to New Mexico. _Hell_ fuckin’ no. “Mm,” he hums, sliding his arms around the shorter man’s shoulders. “Only if we can finish what we started.”

Hanzo grins and slips a hand behind Jesse; the door to the closet opens and the bassist presses a palm flat against his chest, pushing him inside. 

“Well,” Jesse murmurs against Hanzo’s neck, nipping lightly at the skin there and following it with a quick kiss, “looks like I’m goin’ t’Europe.”

\- - -

**Genji** @bettershimada   
look out europe - north wind rising is coming to YOU on tour this spring!  https://northwindrising.com/tour/...  
**10.4K** RETWEETS **21.7K** LIKES  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is brought to you by the song [stuck on you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYGJur3JSvA) by new politics and [this video ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cvWqM9_B0s)of all time low, which was a bit of an inspiration for the final concert scene :') (and to be honest, ATL was another inspiration for the band in general)
> 
> thank you so, so much to everyone who read, reviewed, kudos'd, or generally liked this fic! it was a LOT of fun to write and was an incredibly self-indulgent project for my band-loving self, and i'm glad i could take you all along for the ride with me. i hope you all enjoyed it, and go out there and listen to some good pop punk music. 
> 
> if you'd like, you can find me other places -- my tumblr is [right here](http://kenway.tumblr.com), and i'm extremely active on [twitter](https://twitter.com/starscryy) and always love talking to people/hearing feedback.


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